Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story
by freshouttaideas
Summary: Being the damsel-in-distress sucks, and shining armor chafes. A list of the truths they leave out of fairy tales. (Recurring OCs)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **It's Christmas, again. And I'm feeling Scroogish with the crappy freezing-rain weather and the horrible traffic and the last-minute shopping, so I decided some more tragicomedy was in order for some face-slapping perspective. It's cathartic this time of year. But hey, June 21st isn't that far and we'll have lots of sun again. This is some light entertainment for anyone living north of the 49th parallel and slogging through the gloom of the long dark (sounds like an intro for LoTR or A Song of Ice and Fire), and for anyone south of the 49th parallel who just feels like reading something silly. Nonsense is good.

Big thanks again to hallonim for the cover photo and yes, that's Elvis. These covers are too small.

* * *

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter One**

It was a hard swift kick to the shin. Tim bit down on his tongue and grimaced with the double shot of pain then he called for backup.

Two minutes later his phone buzzed. Seven heads twitched his way. He checked the text. "Uh, shit. Work. Gotta go."

He held up his phone so Miljana could see it was from Rachel. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously but she said, "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. Can you drop me at home on the way?"

"Sure."

Tim was up, jacket on and out the door before Miljana could say her goodbyes to her friends and do the requisite hugging. Tim watched through the glass at the front of the restaurant. It looked forced, he thought, more like politics than affection. When he got back after leaving the military and drifted home, a few of his friends from high school had tried it with him, their BFF, squealing, full-contact, bouncing hugs or the arm-over-the-shoulder, manly, brotherly squeezes, but it felt wrong, at least for him. It made him agitated. There was no way he was getting that close to someone he didn't know anymore or, more accurately, never really knew. They certainly didn't know him at all. He felt stripped bare after everything that had happened and shied away from that kind of contact, backed away from the hugs and the thin friendships. He stopped returning their calls, didn't feel the loss.

Miljana, though, was still tethered to what he felt was an outdated ideal and he observed patiently, trying to keep the disdain under control, as she sped through the routine and then followed him outside, and he gallantly held the door for her when she appeared.

She glared at him.

Tim was all innocence. "What? What did I do? And why'd you kick me?"

"It was a pre-emptive strike. I saw the look on your face. What were you going to say?"

"Uh, congratulations?"

"Bullshit."

"Well, I was gonna suggest as a wedding present we pay to get them spayed and neutered. It'd be a kindness."

A laugh spilled out before she could stop it. She pulled it up sharp and threw out some hastily organized shock. "Tim!"

"What? You're the one laughing. I'm serious."

"That's terrible." She smacked his shoulder. "Do you really have to go to work tonight?"

"No." He pretended to look guilty.

She stopped. "What about the text?"

Tim's eyebrows shrugged for him as he moved to corral her over to the building side of the sidewalk, his eyes doing a quick survey of the street. She was used to it, his sheepdog behavior, it provoked feelings both sad and affectionate and it softened her.

She prodded. "Tim?"

"I have to go to Louisiana tomorrow and I thought it'd be nice to spend some time…you know…just you and me. And, uh, I told Rachel I might need a rescue tonight."

"Rachel's in on this?"

"Don't get mad at her. It was my idea."

"You are the master of escape and evasion."

His smile was devilish. "Since I'm free, do you wanna come home with me?"

"I live with you."

"That works out well then."

He tucked an arm around her waist and directed her up the street to his truck, opened the door for her. She climbed in and watched him while he got settled and started the engine then said, "You don't like my friends, do you?"

"That's not true. I like Steve. And hey, I like your family. They're endlessly entertaining."

"I mean, those friends." She thumbed back in the direction of the restaurant.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize they were friends of yours."

She hit his shoulder again, a hard back-hand of disapproval.

He squinted over, trying for threatening. "Hey, would you quit hitting the same spot. I'm gonna have a nasty bruise to show from this dinner. And you wonder why I don't like your friends."

"Aha! I knew it. You just said it. You don't like them."

"What's to like?"

"Tim!"

"Seriously. I can't think of one nice thing any of them has done for you since I've known you. And you're not yourself with them – you get all uptight. I dunno, maybe it wasn't like that before you started bringing me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I dunno," he repeated, shrugged, trying not to get pushed into saying what he knew was the truth. "Maybe they're not comfortable around a US Marshal. Maybe they're all wanted felons." He looked sideways at her and teased. "How well do you know them?"

She huffed.

He grinned. "Though I did have a nice conversation with Marissa's last boyfriend about concealed weapons licenses. I think the guy's a psycho. What is it with her? You know after that talk I pulled his name. The guy has previous assault charges."

"You're not allowed to do that."

"And he's not allowed to pull people out of their cars and start beating on them because they didn't meet his fucked-up idea of road manners. Wait a minute – was he one of her patients, do you think?" He took his eyes off the road to give her a look of horror. "Can you imagine dating a patient? That's just so wrong."

"And you're so funny." Miljana turned away and stared out the windshield, folded her arms. "I think you're just being over-sensitive."

"You're right. There must be another reason why nobody ever asks about my work."

Trying not to get pushed into saying what she too knew was the truth, Miljana scrambled to come up with another reason. Tim, testy now, beat her to it, and the truth finally slipped out.

"Or maybe your _mental _health care friends are nervous around war veterans. Do you think there's some stereotyping going on?"

"Tim…"

"Oh, come on. Stop making excuses for them. They don't know how to react around me – it's obvious. It's like I'm a leper or something, or I've just announced I'm dying of cancer. Steve's not like that. He's just…Steve. And you're yourself with him. And your family, well they feed me and they're hilarious. I love them. But with those friends – they all stare at me like I've started ticking when I order a drink, and you get this look…" He waggled his fingers in front of her face. "It's cute by the way, all protective and indignant."

Miljana went quiet. She couldn't deny any part of it. She took in a long angry breath and let it out, blowing a raspberry at the world. "I know." She dropped her head back against the seat. "But I've known them since college. We have history…"

Tim leaned over and kissed her when they pulled up in front of the house.

"You're awesome. I'll put up with them for you."

She undid her seatbelt, squeezed over the console and onto his lap and kissed him back and the truck cab was suddenly very small.

"The house is right there," he said around her lips.

* * *

She stretched, her arms pulling up over her head and her toes pointed. Taking advantage of the luxury of a Saturday morning, Tim had crawled back into bed with her after a run and some coffee and was kissing her stomach around her belly-button ring. He happily tucked his arm under the small of her back when she arched. He thought body piercing a ridiculous thing. Purposely putting metal through flesh seemed a dumb idea to him unless it was a well-placed bullet through a deserving asshole. But he'd had to rethink his prejudice here under the covers and naked with her. He looked forward to glimpses of the little gold ring under her belly-button. On her it didn't seem ridiculous, just incredibly sexy, especially since it was hidden mostly. For his eyes only.

Miljana yawned. "She wants me in the wedding party."

Tim dropped his forehead onto Miljana's hip bone and groaned.

"She asked me when I said my rushed goodbyes last night, chasing after you running for the door."

"Was I that obvious?"

"You were Sonic the Hedgehog – hair to match." She reached down and messed it till it stood up. "She actually apologized and made excuses for not having you involved in the ceremony too."

"Fuck me. She actually considered it?"

"I don't think so. She was just covering her ass."

"That's a lot to cover."

Miljana raised a hand to smack his head but stopped herself. Tim caught the movement.

"Hey, on any other woman, it's attractive. On her, everything's ugly."

"Now, Tim, tell me how you really feel."

"You know what I mean. It's one of those old saying things – ugly in, ugly out."

"I've never heard it put so poetically."

"It's the truth. You, on the other hand, would look fantastic wearing desert cammies, Oakleys and full gear and one of those ugly K-Pots with the stupid chin strap and the night-vision thingy attached on the top and no shower for a week. And let me tell you, there's nothing flattering about all that shit. Beautiful in, beautiful out."

"I've seen pictures of you dressed just like that and I think it's hot."

"You couldn't smell me in the photo."

"I like a man in uniform."

"Now you tell me. I traded mine in."

"Uniform in, uniform out."

There was a pause while they both thought about the last line, then Tim said, "That just doesn't sound as good, like all my internal organs are in neat rows and all the same color."

"Yeah, you're right."

He slid up beside her and stuffed his nose in against her neck enjoying the smell of her and she wriggled closer for warmth and ran her fingers lightly through his hair and he almost drifted off to sleep again, almost. He jerked back to the surface, pulled up by the sound of automatic rifle fire. "Shit, I'm already thinking about training. I gotta go shower. My flight's at noon."

She turned over on her side to face him and looped her arms tightly around his neck. "I wish you didn't have to go."

"It's only a week."

"What's Louisiana like this time of year?"

"It's nice. Warm."

"Can I come?"

"Can you fast-rope from a helicopter?"

"No. You could show me."

"People die doing it. No fucking way."

"But it's okay for you?"

"I'm past the newbie fuck-up stage – went through it when I was young and stupid and wearing that invincible suit. Put me in a wedding party though and I promise you someone would die."

Miljana laughed. "The wedding's not till August. You have time to practice."

"August, huh? Well, that gives me six months to convince you to run away with me."

"It's just one day and you are _not _leaving me alone for the reception."

"I got your six."

"You're going to need a suit."

"I got one."

"Not that one."

"Oh for fuck's sake."

"I'll get Steve to take you shopping."

"Can I get drunk first?"

Miljana's sigh was defeat and compromise. "Whatever it takes."

"Yay."

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Two**

"I just need to buy a suit. Okay. Big deal. It's just a suit."

"Uh-huh. And I'm turning 29 on my next birthday." Art turned a disbelieving look over to Raylan who embellished it with eyebrow sarcasm and passed it back to Tim.

"Fine. Believe what you want." Tim slumped back into his chair and started flipping through a file, too fast to be actually reading it.

"Just fess up, Tim. She's making you buy a suit."

"Okay, Raylan, she's making me buy a suit. You happy?"

Raylan rolled a hand. "For your wedding."

"No, not for my wedding." Tim concentrated on the file again. "For somebody else's wedding."

Raylan and Art exchanged disappointed looks. There was no teasing to be had in somebody else's wedding.

"Whose?" Art asked.

"Does it really matter?"

"Yes." A male chorus.

Tim slammed the file shut. "One of Milja's annoying college friends. Fuck, I can't stand the lot of them and now I have to go waste good money on a suit I don't want for a wedding I don't want to be at and the bride is a bitch and the groom is an asshole and Milja's already complaining about the ugly bridesmaid dress she has to wear and I finally get the whole 'Bride-zilla on the rampage' meme." He ran his hands roughly over his face then through his hair, pulling it as he went. "God, I had six months to make up some excuse for not going, now it's a month away and it's taken over my life and it's not even my fucking wedding. _One day,_ she said,_ it's only one day._ Someone shoot me. I'd rather go to a funeral. I fucking hate weddings."

Raylan unclipped his sidearm; Art put out a hand to stop him. "He's kidding, Raylan."

"You sure?"

"No, but don't do in the office."

Rachel, quietly working two desks down, lifted her head, glanced at Tim then contributed her two cents worth to the conversation. "Tcha."

All three men looked over at her.

"What?" Raylan asked, then to the rest of the bullpen. "Any chance someone could turn on the English sub-titles?"

"If there were subtitles to my feelings on the matter, they would read 'weddings are so over-rated.'" Rachel made the little quotation signs, dropped her hands with a slap on her legs and focused again on her work.

"I thought all you women liked weddings? Isn't it biological or something?"

"Jesus, Raylan," Tim stood up and stomped over to the kitchenette to pour out the last of the coffee, stomped back. "Don't say that around Miljana. She'll rip you a new one."

"Not_ all_ women like weddings, especially not the Princess Fairy Tale kind with the Mount Doom summit of expectations attached." Rachel decided to join the discussion properly, pushed her chair back to face them. "Weddings are responsible for more divorces than anything else," she said seriously. "It's statistically irrefutable. I've seen more couples' relationships ruined because of some crazy dream wedding… And what's worse is after they divorce, they sell the house and the car to divide the assets but what they've got together doesn't cover their debt because they're still paying off the _stupid_ wedding."

She stood and walked over, finger waving. "And don't even get me started on the number of friendships wrecked. I haven't been involved in one big fat wedding that hasn't caused the destruction of life-long BFFs – sisters not talking to sisters, best man reduced to worst friend _ever,_ maids-of-honor now on the bitch hit list. And of course, there's always the alcoholic uncle that makes a pass at the bride or one of the bridesmaids or worse yet, a niece. Or if not the uncle then it's the tipsy old aunt who flirts with somebody's boyfriend. And inevitably someone hates the food, someone hates the hall, someone hates the music 'cause it's too loud or too modern or too fast to dance to or too slow to dance to. If it's an open bar, the abstainers disapprove. If it's a paying bar, the partiers whine. There's always a nasty bit of talk around the gift table – someone's present is too ostentatious or there are doubles or something inappropriate or tasteless or some guest, horror of horrors, doesn't bring an expensive enough gift. And the worst – someone sneaks off with the couple's cash envelope. And then there's the drama of who was invited and who wasn't and who brought who as a guest and who's leaving with whose guest and which guest drank so much they threw up, and who sits where and with who and who was overlooked to be the maid-of-honor. 'Did you see so-and-so? Her dress is the same color as the mother-of-the-bride.'" Rachel covered her mouth to feign shock. "Or 'She looks like a slut' or 'She wore that at the last wedding.' And my favorite – the amusing altar scene when the groom arrives late or not at all or so hung-over that the bride has a sour face on for every picture of the $5000 photo package of her _special day._ And without fail some step-_whatever_ has her tits in a twist because she wasn't included in the family group shot."

Rachel stopped and took a breath. "I'm with you, Tim. I hate weddings. If you need an excuse to get out of going, I'll shoot you, somewhere that won't leave a bad scar and won't be fatal."

Tim grinned. "Thanks, Rachel. Marry me?"

She ignored him.

"Is there really all that going on at weddings?" Art asked, frowning at Raylan.

"Not that I've noticed." A shrug.

"Tcha. _Men."_

Tim's phone pinged and he checked his message. "Gotta go," he said then added as he passed Rachel, "I may take you up on that bullet before the month's out."

She tapped her sidearm. "I got you covered."

* * *

"That shirt is so fucking gay."

"That's why I love you, Tim. I can always count on you to say the sweetest things." Steve stood up from the table, lanky and dressed for the boardroom, perfect creases and shined brogues, and spread his arms wide. "Come here, lover, for a man hug."

Tim walked past and sat in the chair with the best view of the rest of the bistro.

Slapping his hands on his hips, Steve remained standing, purposely drawing attention to himself by saying loudly, "Boyfriend, what's chewing on your junk today?"

Tim glared, smirked. "Sit down, asshole."

"It's hitting first, I promise. Do you mind if the rest of me follows?"

That drew a chuckle and Tim relaxed forward, elbows on the table. A waitress came by and dropped off two glasses of beer and Tim watched Steve smile smoothly at her and she blushed. He sat down when she left and crossed a leg easily over a knee, lifted his glass and toasted Tim.

"To shopping," he said.

"Anything for a mouthful of beer."

"Slut."

Tim wasn't trying to be nice when he told Miljana he liked Steve. He really did. The man was irrepressible and intelligent and funny but more importantly Tim trusted him. He trusted Steve with his girl, his problems, his money, his feelings when he bothered to have any; he trusted Steve's taste in beer and whiskey, trusted him to show up on time and do what he said he'd do. He was a straight-up guy, just not a straight guy, and he never backed down from a challenge. And Miljana trusted him to get Tim fitted for a suit he didn't want and make certain it didn't break him, financially or psychologically. It wasn't going to be easy but Steve was that good. He was definitely the man for the job.

"Milja suggested I lull you stupid with some alcohol before I allow some guy with a tape measure and soft hands to ask you which side you hang on."

"I appreciate the consideration."

"You misunderstand me. I'm doing this for her. She says she prefers you out of jail. Prison jumper wasn't what she had in mind for her date at the wedding."

"I think I look good in orange."

"I think you'd look better in a nice olive suit with a paler dress shirt underneath, the jacket cut properly over your slim hips…"

"Steve, stop talking about my hips. You're giving me an erection."

Steve smiled but didn't comment – their burgers had arrived. "I took the liberty," he said pointing at Tim's plate, "bacon and cheese?"

"Thank you. That is a proper hamburger. I love you, man."

"I know. Whatever are we going to tell Miljana?"

"How about nothing?"

Another smile and they dug into their lunches, waving the waitress over for another round of beer. They ate quickly, discussing the logistics of cutting a suit to hide a holster. Steve suggested Tim leave his weapons at home for a day. Tim choked on a pickle.

"Ready?" said Steve, wiping his hands carefully on a napkin.

A resigned, "Ah, what the fuck, yeah."

"Let's go, soldier boy."

They split the bill and headed down the street to Steve's favorite mens shop.

* * *

"And he _walks _– he stabbed her twenty-two times and he walks. His defense rested on the fact that he wasn't aware of what he was doing. He was asleep – sleepwalking." Tim, standing as still as possible in a suit full of pins and trying his best to ignore the soft hands and the tape measure, was explaining the details of a recent trial in the courthouse while Steve picked through dress shirts. "There's a lot of rumbling in the law courts about automatism as a defense. It's a tricky line they're drawing. What's the psychology world's take on it, Mr. Academic?"

Steve looked thoughtful, tossed a shirt, a possible go, with two others on the counter. "We're still trying to explain the placebo effect. Our profession is all about how the brain works and affects how we behave, how we view and interact with our world. It's unimaginably complex. I wouldn't know how to slot that into a one-size-fits-all legal system. I'll leave that to the jurisprudence experts."

"I knew a guy who assaulted his wife in his sleep."

There was a stretch of air after Tim's comment that felt full, significant. Steve walked over in front of Tim and crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at him, his lunch-hour project. "Law enforcement or military?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not where you're concerned. But let's consider another profession. Truck drivers fall asleep at the wheel and collide with cars. They're pushed beyond tired by ridiculous timetable expectations. They need the jobs to feed their families. Who do you blame?"

"It wasn't me, alright?"

Steve looked at Tim steadily for a minute, a smile growing. "Do you need a hug?"

Tim grinned and his phone buzzed at the same time, buried with his sidearm and holster beneath a growing pile of dress shirts.

"I'll get it," Steve offered and did before Tim could object.

"Tim Gutterson's phone." Steve waved off the hand Tim was holding out desperately and spoke to whoever was calling, "He's a bit tied up currently. Five minutes? How about ten? Sure thing. I'll have him dressed and out the door." He gave the address of the shop and hung up. "Marshal Givens is on his way to pick you up. He says he needs your gun for backup." Steve smirked and opened his eyes wide. "Sounds exciting. Can I come?"

"_No._ Shit. Raylan? I gotta go. Can you..? Would you mind..? Seriously, any shirt's fine. Fuck it. Just nothing gay, got it?" Tim caught the corner of a look exchanged between Steve and the shop owner, turned anxiously to the clerk holding his suit. "Hey, I can return the shirt if I don't like it, right?"

Steve kept up a smirk watching Tim scramble to get his jeans on and his holster in place. "You're adorable," he said. "No wonder she likes you."

"I'm still trying to work out why she likes you." A pause. "I guess I should be nicer to the guy whose help I need, huh? Can you..?" He gestured at everything.

"Don't worry about it, Tim. I've got orders from higher up the chain of command. I'm to cover your ass on anything to do with wardrobe."

Tim brought a hand up and smacked his forehead, slid his hand down his face. "Dude, you wanna say 'I've got your six', alright? It just sounds better."

"Not to me. Not when I get to see that look on your face." A black Town Car pulled in at the curb in front of the store and Steve glanced over then stared. "Is that him?"

Tim nodded, slapped Steve's shoulder on his way past to the door. "Thanks, man."

Steve leaned on the counter, watching amused the hurried escape, the car pulling quickly away. "That hat and tie…" he murmured to the shopkeeper and they both shook their heads in unison. "Tragic. I'll bet you my Borrelli shirt he's wearing Levi's."

* * *

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	3. Chapter 3

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Three**

"You were tied up and naked?"

"Yeah, uh, no…that's Steve for you – friend of Milja's. He has a way with words."

"Uh-huh." Raylan chuckled. "I came as fast as I could. I wanted to see for myself."

Tim decided to stop the conversation before it got any weirder. "Where are we going? I gotta be back by three for a meeting with that company about helping out with security on that trial next month."

"Good news, Tim. I got you out of it. Told Art I needed a man with a scope and a rifle so he assigned Nelson to the security job."

Tim took a deep breath, squinted over at Raylan. He had a well-founded distrust of good news, worn into a comfortable groove by years of orders received from sergeants or lieutenants with a twisted sense of humor or a warped idea of what 'good' might encompass. 'Good news' could mean his team was in the shit for real within the hour; 'good news' could mean he was being shipped back to the States a day or two early but only because his company was assigned the worst, most grueling back-to-back patrols possible; 'good news' could mean he was being given some down time which usually meant cleaning something nasty on base or some other boring shit detail; 'good news' was always accompanied by a frago, a change to the orders that he and the other guys had finally digested and accepted as inevitable; 'good news' was rarely that.

"Good news, huh?"

"Yep. I convinced Art that what I was doing was more important and I needed you."

"Did you bring my vest?"

"Why would you need a vest? We're just going to check a few things out, poke around."

Tim decided not to answer. He thought it too obvious. "Raylan, what's more important than court security? That's kinda our job."

"And it's boring."

"Yeah, it's boring."

"Besides, _fugitive hunting_ is also in our job description and it's a lot more fun."

Tim replied with a cautious, "Yeah, I guess. Who are we hunting?"

"A man named Elvis."

"I hate to break it to you, but Elvis is dead. Are you one of those fans who's convinced he's hiding out waiting to make a comeback? I guess that'd mean Art is too. Great, I'm surrounded by the delusional _and_ I have to go to a wedding in three weeks."

"Elvis Williams Johnson – not sure if he sings but he was supposed to."

Tim sat up. "Isn't he the guy who gave the Bureau in Reno the bad info and took off with the reward money?"

"That's right. It has come to my attention that Elvis is hiding out in the unlikeliest place."

"Kentucky."

"Kentucky."

"He's in Kentucky?"

"Yep, Kentucky. Did we not just establish that?"

"Tell me he's not in Harlan."

"He's not in Harlan."

Tim cocked his head over, disbelief. "Seriously."

"So my source tells me."

"Who's your source?"

Raylan hesitated, a small pause from a man never at a loss for words, a hitch of empty air, a microcosm of all Tim's unease, a signal of potential disaster looming. "He's in Clay County is what I've been told, hanging out with some distant relatives."

"Clay County? Jesus, that might as well be Harlan. Pull over."

"What? Why?"

"Just pull over."

Raylan streamed off the interstate at the next exit, a rest area. There were two other cars parked, two different families on their way somewhere stopped for a home-made picnic lunch, wrapped sandwiches and sodas and a bag of chips. Raylan pulled in a few car-lengths past them and Tim got out and went around behind the car and opened the trunk and started pulling out firearms, a smaller Glock that he slipped into the back of his jeans, a smile for his rifle case that he slung comfortably over his shoulder, a shotgun and two vests. He slammed the trunk shut and called out to Raylan, "Hey, you brought my rifle. The day's looking up."

Behind him the parents were hustling their kids and their lunches into their cars. One sped past and Tim watched it careen out of the parking lot as he tossed the vests and his rifle bag into the back seat. He then set the shotgun across the dash for easy access, put his seatbelt on and waved at the road ahead.

"Okay, we can go now."

"Tim, what're you doing?"

"Clay County, Raylan." Tim patted the shotgun. "I'm not getting off the main road there without announcing my friendly intentions."

Raylan reached up to pull the shotgun down but Tim stopped him. "Who's your source, Raylan?"

"Fine, keep your shotgun. Baby."

"If you wanted bad-ass, you should've brought Rachel."

"She doesn't have a nice long-range scope." Raylan leaned over and opened the glove compartment and pulled out a box, handed it to Tim. "I don't care to get too close to the Johnson clan without a good look-see first."

"Hey, that was in my desk, in my _locked_ drawer. How did you get it?"

"Art has master keys."

"Did Art…? I told Art _no one_ was allowed to touch my equipment. This is mine. Paid for by me. It's not public property."

"Now don't get mad at Art – I didn't tell him I was borrowing the keys…and your scope."

Tim glared sideways at Raylan then opened the box to check the contents, passed a hand over it lovingly and picked it up for a closer inspection. "You might've wrecked it." He set it back into the foam cutout and closed the box, glared again sideways. "Just how bad are these people?"

"Remember the Truth family?"

Tim thought back to hunting down Waldo Truth and the pack of mad dogs that were his kin. "Yep."

"They'd be like the Cleavers alongside this bunch."

"Raylan, who's your source?"

"Should we stop for coffee before we leave the interstate? I can't guarantee there'll be any place worth pulling over after that."

* * *

"Another one just went in." Raylan nudged Tim with his elbow. "Is it Elvis?"

"Nope, no rhinestones."

"Could you be serious about this? It's $50,000 he stole from us."

"Technically he didn't steal it from us – someone handed it to him. Besides, he stole it from the Reno Bureau. You shouldn't take it so personally."

"Hey, I think that car's pulling in. Who's in it?"

"Every car that's been on this goat path you keep calling a road has pulled in. And you're supposed to be watching our backs. I don't want somebody sneaking up my six while my attention is focused on a twenty-by-twenty piece of real estate a thousand yards away."

Tim and Raylan were lying in a small grove of trees up on a high hill looking down a long sloping farmer's field to a grouping of trailers, single-wide, all three, and old, the grass growing long and uncared-for around them. Two men and a woman were sitting out in lawn chairs by a truck and there was some activity, some coming and going, three cars in, two out, but no Elvis.

Raylan did a cursory check behind them then peered through his binoculars again, looking too down toward the group of trailers but not able to make out faces, less detail available to him than Tim could see with his scope. "Who's the guy in the passenger seat?"

"I think it's Jim Morrison."

"I think they're selling. Looks like it, don't it?"

"Yep."

"Maybe we should go scare them."

"You want to go kick that honey badger in the nuts, be my guest. I'll stay here and watch. They're all carrying."

"Now, I promised you some fun. I plan to make good."

"Pig squeals and banjos, Raylan, aren't fun. Gets me edgy."

"Tim, everything gets you edgy. Don't be a sissy."

"That edgy, that's experience. I told you if you wanted bad-ass to call Rachel."

Raylan stood up, slapping Tim on the back as he rose. "C'mon Tim, let's go see Elvis."

Tim pushed onto his knees reluctantly, slipped his rifle strap over his shoulder. "Elvis. You're fucking kidding me, right?" He rocked back onto his feet and trailed after Raylan to the car.

* * *

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Raylan calmly, hands up in front like a superhero prepared to stop bullets when three handguns, a shotgun and a hunting rifle all appeared out of thin air, held by mean and nervous hands and aimed in his direction. "Do you see DEA? 'Cause we ain't DEA and I told Tim here not to dress like DEA. Tim, did you leave your DEA shirt at home?"

"Yes Raylan, I left my DEA shirt at home." Tim answered though the question didn't really need answering. He had his shotgun pointed at the three on the lawn chairs, nicely grouped so that he could hopefully wound two of them with the one shot he could get off before dying. He had his vest on at least, but he wasn't going to kid himself that any of these people were trained for a center of mass shot. Likely they'd aim wild if they aimed at all and one lucky bullet would eventually take him out at the knees, unprotected, maybe even nick a femoral artery in the process. He sighed.

Raylan didn't appear to be having any such morbid thoughts, continuing his blithe and pseudo-friendly overtures. "What's on special today folks? You got a BOGO sale going? We were thinking maybe you did, what with all the traffic in and out of here this afternoon. Meth, Oxy? Or maybe you all run a California hippy-style certified organic pot farm?"

The wind rustled the grasses and the birds called out to their own kind from the tree line behind the trailers, filling the space left after Raylan's speech. Raylan slid his weight from one hip to the other, still smiling. Eventually he turned to Tim, said, "They clearly have an excellent product – the place is hopping with customers – but I think they need to hire a marketing person, work on their public relations skills a little. What do you think?"

Tim didn't really believe Raylan wanted to hear what he thought but the silence was dangerous so he nibbled away at it. "I think you should go on and ask them what you're here to ask them so we can leave and they can get back to running their operation."

"You sure you don't want to look around a bit, do a little shopping? Don't you have a wedding to go to? You'd need a gift for that."

"Nope. I left my wallet at home."

"I got some cash." Raylan dropped one hand, still smiling, and five barrels moved up a fraction and slid a fraction forward toward the Marshals, shortening the distance. A sixth barrel twitched a blink behind the others, Tim slipping his finger onto the trigger.

"Raylan," he said through his teeth.

"Alright." Raylan pushed his hat back and turned to the only woman in the group. "Ma'am, we're looking for one of yours, fellow named Elvis, sixth cousin maybe or a nephew or possibly both. He stole some money from the United States Marshals Service and we kinda want it back. And that's all we want."

She spat on the ground, stared Raylan in the eye.

"Okay, if that's how it's gonna be. Tim, I think we need to tell some friends about this fantastic little store we found…"

Five barrels shifted again, another fraction higher, another fraction closer. Tim didn't think he could improve his aim so his stayed steady again.

The youngest-looking of the crew wagged his revolver, puffed out his chest like a rooster. "You threatening us? Two lonely federals? We'll bury you right here, right now."

Raylan snorted. "I'm pleased to see you can count to two. That's quite a display of intellect. But seriously, do you really think we're stupid enough to come out here and get into the middle of your shit like this alone?" Raylan looked back at Tim and grinned carelessly, amused, then he directed his attention again to the woman. "Where's Elvis? Tell us and it'll be like we were never here."

The woman set her shotgun beside her lawn chair and spat again. She squinted over at a man standing by the trailer door then said, "He's staying with Ted's wife, at least that's what we last heard."

"Ted? Theodore Johnson? The old guy who ran moonshine down through Harlan back in the day?"

"That's right."

"His wife's still alive? She must be a hundred."

"Must be."

"Huh. Well, thank you, ma'am. You all have a lovely afternoon." Raylan tipped his hat and signaled for Tim to back off.

Tim did, slowly, keeping the barrel pointed until Raylan had the car turned around and they were bumping off down the goat trail back to the main road.

"There, see? That was fun." Raylan reached over and tapped Tim's arm, backhanded.

"Yep, fun." Tim's enthusiasm thudded on the floor of the car like a feather with an anchor. He still had the shotgun across his lap, barrel sitting on the frame of the open window.

"You can put that down now," said Raylan, a quick glance over.

"We on the main road yet?" Tim's eyes were raking over the scenery in front and to the side. He was still on edge and still speaking through his teeth. He stopped the comment Raylan was about to throw back with, "Feel free to take Rachel with you next time if you don't like it."

"Fine, whatever." They jostled along the trail another five minutes before Raylan spoke again. "Did you get a close look at the fellow at the…"

"I did."

"I didn't want to stare. You could identify him then?"

"No problem. I'll dig through the database when we get back, pass the info along to somebody. He kinda gave himself away there at the end."

"Uh-huh. They always do. Let me know when you find his name. Did you see him twitch when I mentioned Elvis?"

"Maybe he's a fan."

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Four**

"Tim, you're lacking your usual spark today."

They were back on the interstate and Tim was still holding the shotgun aimed out the window, dead stare at the horizon.

"Maybe you should pull the barrel in. You're gonna cause an accident."

Tim blinked, appeared to come back to the car. "Shit." The shotgun jerked back and down and Tim cleared it and set it in the back seat. "Sorry." He left the window rolled down.

"You forget to take your meds this morning?"

"It's not like it's life or death, you know?"

Raylan squinted over at Tim. "What, finding Elvis or you taking your meds or not?"

"This stupid party."

"Are we having a party?"

Tim huffed and crossed his arms.

"Illuminate me, Tim. Just what exactly are you on about?"

"There's a pre-wedding party thing tomorrow." Tim finally rolled up the window, cutting off the noise and the heat. "_One day,_ she said, and now there's this party and then a bachelor party and suit shopping and gift shopping. It's not like it's life or death if I go or not, right? I mean, I'd do anything for her, but… Does this count?"

Raylan didn't feel qualified to answer.

"It's a _rehearsal _– a rehearsal for a wedding. What the fuck, right? And the bitch-queen wants everything to be an event so no one feels left out of her – I don't know what – her glorious reign as bride-to-be. She didn't ask me. I don't mind being left out. Now I gotta hang out with all these people without Miljana for two hours while they have their rehearsal. A fucking rehearsal…for a wedding. You'd think they were putting on a Broadway show for a paying audience." A sharp, harsh breath of frustration in, then out. "I take that back – we _are_ a paying audience. Fuck. I'd rather face down the Johnsons again."

Raylan always figured this was why most rock bands broke up – too much time together sitting in tour buses or airplanes with nothing to do but talk. Life in the US Marshals Service was much the same. Two hours, four hours, sometimes more in a car with another human being that under any other circumstances you likely would never bother to get to know, sharing personal information to pass the time – it was part of the job. He'd had a few coworkers that he'd learned to despise, made one or two unshakable friendships in the process. You figured out quickly if you liked someone or not when you spent the kind of time with them that the job demanded, the kind of time you normally only allowed close friends and lovers, people you _chose_ to know intimately. Raylan wasn't sure yet about Tim.

In a way, Lexington was better than any of Raylan's previous assignments. It was a laid-back crew here with a decent amount of humor always at the ready. He enjoyed his time with Rachel, their just off-edgy racial conversations, her reserve with bite. He felt he was beginning to understand her and her ambitions. Art was a different situation since they knew each other from before. Raylan worried that he might be getting to know Art too well now, or maybe it was the other way around, and that the change in their duties, from instructors to active field Deputies, and the differences in ideologies that were surfacing because of it, could become a wedge in their easy friendship. He could see it becoming another Guns 'n' Roses break up, so he treaded carefully with Art. Tim was a black box. You could get information out occasionally when necessary, and he was there _always,_ predictable, solid, like a desk or more like a favorite handgun, but mostly he was a mystery. And Raylan couldn't know if that was a good thing or not until it was too late. He wanted to be the kind of person who erred on the side of caution, good sense told him to keep Tim at arms' length, but he couldn't help himself wanting to pry the lid off for a peek inside. Curiosity, and he had to admit to an impulse control problem on his part.

He tapped on the lid.

"Is there no one there you could hang with?"

"I can't be bothered."

Raylan's eyebrows went up, not that he was judging. "Can't be bothered because you're an asshole or because they're idiots?"

_"I_ can't be bothered because _they_ can't be bothered. 'Man with a gun. Approach with caution.'" He put the last phrase in finger quotations.

"Yeah, typical. There's some funny ideas out there about shooting people."

"So, yes, I'm an asshole. I can't be bothered teaching them different, not even for Milja's sake. I just haven't got the energy or the patience for that kinda bullshit."

"So don't go."

"I already said I'd go," Tim mumbled.

"So take a friend, raise a little hell. It's why I carry a flask. If I can't get it there, I bring it with me. Might as well have some fun. You can either reinforce their ideas or kick them on end."

Tim let the suggestion sit a while. Eventually he turned his head slowly and eyed Raylan.

Raylan caught the movement, squirmed a little. "No way. Uh-uh," he said. "I already did a wedding and a divorce."

"No, it's a good idea, both the flask and the friend. I'm just surprised hearing a good idea from you." Tim slipped his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts, connected. "Hey, it's me – Tim. How good's my credit on favors?"

Raylan looked over curiously when Tim started laughing. So Tim had friends. This was news. And he was a little more sparky for the last hour of the drive back to the office.

* * *

"News flash."

Tim dropped a sheet of paper onto Raylan's desk, stood there while it floated down and then watched Raylan pick it up and read it.

When Raylan was finished and looked up, Tim said, "Yeah, I know – Reno mob, hardly a surprise. So now I get to ask the question again – Raylan, who's your source? I'm thinking maybe he's somebody else's source, too. I'm just assuming, but I'd think back-road Clay County is not exactly the first place a Reno mob hitman would be looking for a snitch. Somebody must've given him up to more than just you."

"His shirt looked too new for that collection of trailers, didn't it?"

"Yep, and the gun he had pointed at me wasn't hillbilly enough, too big city. Do you think Elvis really is at that old lady's house?"

Raylan shrugged, a bare shake of his head. "Don't know, but I intend to find out."

Tim wagged a finger at the mobster's rap sheet. "You'd better get there before he does."

"He'll never find her." Raylan dismissed the idea, derisive. "And if he does, he's in for a nasty surprise. I heard stories she packs a shotgun and a .50 caliber revolver – Smith and Wesson if I remember correctly. Handy with both."

Tim tried to imagine, gave up. "Can _you _find her?"

"I believe I can. Old Ted Johnson was a regular partner of the Bennett clan back before Mags's time, did some work with Arlo and Bo Crowder too. His sons went legit, ran a used car dealership near Danville though I'm sure they're retired now. Their ma was never keen on the other business and made them swear they wouldn't follow in their daddy's footsteps." Raylan smiled at Tim, reminisced. "He was a devil. I met him once – real charmer. I was in awe and he was _old_ then. They never married. He refused on account of he hated the church, wouldn't never set foot in one. That was unusual for the times, living in sin and all." Raylan tapped the sheet, the photo on it. "Mr. Reno, Nevada won't know that and won't be able to track her by her name. There aren't many folks around still who know about old Theodore's wife and kids. He was a careful man. Arlo used to buy his cars from the kids. They'd cut him a deal for old-times' sake."

"Raylan, it frightens me how deeply you're connected to the criminal underworld of Kentucky."

"Tim, it frightens me how deeply you're connected to your rifle."

Tim grinned. "It's because I sit beside you, Raylan. I'm now _way less_ than six degrees of separation from every violent offender south of Lexington. That makes me edgy."

Raylan faked a hurt look, pressed his lips together. "Well, I can't deny the truth of it, and _that's_ why I'm going to find Elvis before this fellow does." He stood up and smiled at Tim and took the sheet on the Reno mob hitman in to see Art, looked back over his shoulder when he was at the door. "You coming?"

Tim tagged along. He couldn't help himself.

Art had both hands gripped on the arms of his chair as if ready for a quick escape, peered suspiciously over his glasses at Raylan. "What, Raylan?"

Raylan stopped halfway to Art's desk. "I don't appreciate your tone, Art."

"My tone hasn't changed since the first week after you transferred here. When you walk into my office uninvited it's usually the beginning of a string of regrets for me. And when you have Tim in tow, the odds of my regretting something go from about 95% up to about 99%."

It was Tim's turn to fake hurt. "I didn't do anything."

"It's what you _don't_ do, Tim. You don't say 'no' in the first place."

* * *

It didn't matter where they were, whenever he saw her he relaxed a little. It was almost like being home. She stepped out of the building and smiled over at him, a smile that cut through it all and tapped gently at him, the real Tim, underneath the layers of distrust and experience, past the jaded and vigilant, past the badge and the title and the marks from a violent day or yesterday or last year or last decade. The lines disappeared when she was around. She skipped happily across the road and hopped into the truck, had an enthusiastic kiss for him, then she turned to the windshield and screamed at the top of her lungs. Tim chuckled at the display.

"That good, huh?"

"It's horrid." She dropped her head and covered her face with her hands. "It's really, really horrid."

"Beautiful in, beautiful out. You'll make it look good."

"No, I won't. Even Beyoncé couldn't make that dress look good." She made a noise, some angry animal. "Okay, maybe she could, but it would be hard even for her."

"What can we do tonight to help you forget about it?"

"I think I want to go home, curl up in the fetal position on the couch and wish away my summer."

"Yes, ma'am." Tim pulled into traffic, a quick glance over at her once, twice, gauging. "Well, I'll look good," he teased.

"Do you want me to start screaming again?"

"Tell you what, the day after the wedding we'll get up early and go see Fischer and set that dress up downrange and you can shoot at it all morning."

"He'd let me?"

"He likes you."

"Can I use your rifle?"

Tim hesitated, wet his lips. "Uh, I guess, yeah. If you want to."

She slipped her hand around behind his neck and squeezed at the tension. "That is the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

"Fuck off."

"So you and Steve got a suit then? I guess shopping wasn't so bad."

"We had beer first. I suffered through it. I had to run out on him though – Raylan called. I left him to pick out a shirt but I told him, nothing gay."

"I can't believe you get away talking to him like that."

"He knows I'm saying nothing more than I'm saying. The man has no insecurities. He just laughs at me. And you should hear what he says back."

"You two have a weird relationship."

"He's cool."

"How was your day?"

"Me and Raylan, we spent the afternoon hunting for Elvis on a tip."

"Did you find him?"

"Nope."

"Good. I thought maybe I was going to have to start worrying about you...more than I already do."

Tim was feeling relaxed when they got home. It was Friday night. "You hungry?" he asked unlocking the door of the house and holding it open for her.

"Not really."

"I'm going belly-button hunting before dinner then. Care to join me?"

"No, you go ahead."

He cocked his head and glared, bent down and tucked a shoulder into her waist, lifted her wounded-soldier style and stomped up the stairs. She giggled and squirmed too much for a wounded soldier.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Five**

"I've found the perfect shoes and the manager at the store said he can guarantee he'll have them in stock so we're going to go after work on Monday, all of us. They're a little expensive but I'm sure you'll wear them again. They're gorgeous, three-inch heels and the perfect color to match the dresses." Bridezilla, Arlene, had turned around to tell her wedding posse the happy news, her smile shining like the blade on a guillotine.

She mouthed ecstatically: _powder blue pumps._

Miljana sat in the back of the van listening and watching while the others joined in with the bride-to-be's excitement about her find. It was a colorful array of heels, skirts, jewelry and make-up from Miljana's view. She looked down at her flat sandals and short jean skirt and reached a hand up to make sure her hair wasn't falling out of its clip and had a fleeting pang of unease. She considered going home first to change into something more appropriate. More appropriate for what? For a casual, summer-evening, backyard party. She tamped down her feelings of inadequacy and tried to imagine what she could possibly wear a pair of powder blue pumps with other than the hideous bridesmaid's dress. Maybe nothing, and for Tim. He'd probably not even be aware of the shoes. She smiled.

Bridezilla noticed. "Milja, honey, you are going to wear make-up on my day, right?"

"Of course."

"It's just you're not wearing any today."

"It's a rehearsal and it's ninety degrees."

None of the others got the connection. Marissa, the maid-of-honor, smiled and said, "My air conditioning broke down yesterday," and everyone commiserated.

The party was at Arlene's parents, a sprawling bungalow in Lakeview Acres with a nice pool and a huge yard. Miljana hurried around the outside of the house as soon as she was free of the car, foregoing the mandatory trip to the bathroom to powder her nose with the other women. She was concerned about leaving Tim alone for so long with this crowd and nothing to hold on to. She stopped just past the patio and scanned the faces. Most of Arlene's family and friends were in attendance, an informal version of the wedding guest list all accounted for, the nieces and nephews and other children running screaming through the clusters of adults or jumping into the pool or abusing the poor clown that Arlene had insisted be hired for the event. The adults tried to stay out of the way, huddled around the buffet or the impromptu bar looking hot and uncomfortable. There was a kid-only zone around the pool save for a few brave souls who had joined in with the pre-teens for a full-out water battle, Super Soakers included.

Miljana remembered being told by Arlene's mother once that Super Soakers weren't allowed at her house.

She heard a blood-curdling scream and fifty heads turned in time to see two men, soaked to the skin, tossing a body's-worth of flailing, skinny limbs into the pool. The men collected the water guns they'd set on the ground at their feet while they performed the kid-tossing and disappeared behind the back shed chasing out three other screaming children equally armed for summer combat.

Miljana chuckled once, nervously, then strode heedlessly into the warzone. She grabbed a water balloon from a pile and made her way to the shed. Steve almost ran her over making a dash for a nearby tree for cover and Tim ran out after him, Super Soaker aimed. Steve took refuge behind Miljana stopping Tim in his tracks.

"Hey sweetheart," he said, breathing heavily, wiping the water off his face with the bottom of his wet t-shirt. "How'd it go?"

"Holy fuck," she said. "You're having a water fight with my thesis advisor at my incredibly uptight friend's mother's house."

"Uh-huh."

She threw the water balloon and it hit him square in the chest and exploded. Tim opened fire.

* * *

Tim changed into dry clothes, bundled the wet jeans and shirt into a bag and carried it back to the patio. He saw Miljana standing to one side, changed too into something less soggy, a pretty summer dress, her wet hair back in a clip. The clown had her cornered, a beer in his hand, closer than he should be, leaning lasciviously. Tim walked up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed and forced him to turn around. Pulling Miljana out from the corner and putting his arm possessively around her, Tim put on his best Marshal's glare for the clown, thumbed over his shoulder.

"Beat it, Bozo."

He did.

"You know, big feet doesn't always mean…" Tim waved suggestively.

Miljana started laughing. "You're terrible. I was just feeling sorry for him. No one else was talking to him."

"You don't have to be nice to everyone."

"You can be so mean."

"You're beautiful."

"You're biased."

"Uh-uh."

"Steve's all alone. Go sit with him. I'll join you in a minute. I have to say hi to Arlene's parents."

Tim stopped at the bar on the way over to Steve, waved off the offer of wine and held up two fingers. The bartender handed over two bottles of beer and Tim strolled away happy.

"It was a good idea bringing her a change of clothes. You must've known she'd throw herself into the battle."

"Or that her boyfriend would show no mercy."

Tim grinned uncertainly, handed Steve a cold beer and sat beside him in a chair on the outer edge of the adults' territory.

"She looks refreshed though," said Steve watching Miljana chatting with Arlene's father. "And very pretty."

"Yeah, thanks to you every clown here's hitting on her."

"Fortunately, there's only one."

"No, there's more than one, trust me."

The battle was petering out, a smattering of Super Soaker gun fire from the pool and the sporadic splat of water balloon mortars hitting the grass.

"Tim, you're a genius. Super Soakers were a fantastic idea."

"And you are the best date I ever had. Thank you."

They each raised their beer, toasting the afternoon, each let out a sympathetic groan when a water balloon caught some poor unsuspecting kid in the back of the head and knocked him flat.

Miljana appeared, dry and cool and smiling. "Did you pick this out?" she asked Tim pointing to her dress.

Tim waved his bottle at Steve. She smiled over for her friend, appreciative of his taste, and that's when she noticed the tattoo, the grim reaper and crossed rifles on Steve's well-toned, forty-five-year-old arm.

She stared. Steve leaned forward and motioned her closer. She bent in to hear.

"It's a fake," he said, hushed, "temporary. I have a friend whose partner runs a tattoo parlor and he did it for me this morning with marker. Not bad, I thought. Tim says I choose well. He likes it. I had it done so he wouldn't be the only one here with a tat." He reached over and patted Tim's thigh. "The poor boy – he's a rose amongst thorns."

"Steve, were you even invited?"

"Tim invited me."

Tim shrugged. "I'm dumping you for your best friend, sweetheart."

"That's so cliché," she said.

"Don't worry, dear," Steve added, "I know most of the wedding party. Taught them all psychology at UK at some point. Everyone figures I'm on the guest list somewhere. I had a nice chat with Arlene's father before the water wars began. He and I worked together for a while at the University Hospital with your dad."

Miljana nodded absently, looked over at the grin on Tim's face, a rare thing with this crowd. "Your idea – the Super Soakers?"

"Yeah, I cleaned out the Walmart with Steve after I picked him up."

Steve raised his hand. "I bought the balloons."

An enthusiastic nod from Tim. "It was a nice touch."

"I'm amazed they didn't call the police and have you both escorted off the property."

"Sweetheart, I know most of the guys at LPD."

"Didn't anyone say anything?"

"No one's come near us." Pointing at himself, Tim recited, "Man with gun and tattoos – approach with caution," and Miljana and Steve exchanged a knowing look.

"You brought a gun," she said, stated.

"No one's seen it."

Steve's head whipped around. "You brought a gun?"

Tim huffed, said, "Duh," stood and gave Miljana his chair, nabbed an abandoned one away from another group and then went to the bar to get her a beer. The three sat comfortably silent watching the party.

"I feel like I'm sitting at a movie theater," said Steve. "Watching some tasteless rom-com."

"Yeah, like _My Best Friend's Wedding,_" Tim suggested.

Steve started singing, his beer bottle a microphone, leaning into Tim, "_Whenever I wake up, before I put on my make-up, I say a little prayer for you." _He had a decent voice, a warm tenor, and he sang loudly enough to turn heads their direction._ "While combing my hair, now, and wondering what dress to wear, now, I say a little prayer for you."_

Miljana giggled at the look on Tim's face, the roll of the eyes. She joined in for the chorus when she could remember the words.

_"Forever, forever, you'll stay in my heart_  
_ And I will love you_  
_ Forever, and ever, we never will part_  
_ Oh, how I'll love you_  
_ Together, together, that's how it must be_  
_ To live without you_  
_ Would only mean heartbreak for me."_

Steve finished it alone and Tim grabbed him around the neck and planted a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek that drew a loud laugh from Steve too, then Tim reached behind him for his bag and pulled out a flask, unscrewed the lid and had a drink and passed it around to accompany the beer. His phone rang. He stared at it frowning while it buzzed a second time then answered, "Raylan."

He listened and looked apologetically at Miljana and gave the address of the house and hung up. "I'm sorry."

"Another well-timed escape and evasion."

"No. I did not plan this. I wouldn't do that to Steve."

"But you would to me."

"Uh…"

Steve piped in, "Dear, he loves me more. We've been trying to tell you."

Miljana let Tim pull her out of her chair and he lifted her off her feet and kissed her like he meant it and he did. "I gotta go." He handed Steve the keys to his truck. "This is why I brought a gun," he said, smiled impishly and left.

Arlene was watching. Miljana caught an expression much like jealously aimed her way. Arlene's fiancé had his back to her, chatting and smiling to one of Arlene's older nieces.

* * *

Tim started walking down the road to cut Raylan off. He was thinking hard as he marched along, thinking that he had a good time for once at a party with Miljana's college friends but it rubbed him raw that he had to call in support to do it. It was stupid. He loved her desperately, the one thing he could call his own that he didn't have to fight for, just there for him because he was who he was and she didn't demand that he be anything else, so what gave them the right to judge at all? Did they not trust her? Too be fair, he didn't trust their judgment, except where their friendship with Miljana was concerned.

He ran a hand in frustration through his hair and caught the flash of a rifle and crosshairs out of the corner of his eyes and rubbed angrily at the tattoo wishing for the first time that he hadn't gone into that tattoo parlor with his buddies. How could a bunch of idiots do that to you? Make you wish you were something other than what you were. Stupid. He slapped the thought aside and stared at the rifle and crosshairs and rubbed at it a little more fondly remembering how proud he was graduating sniper school and getting his deployment orders and loading on that transport and landing in Afghanistan. It wasn't his fault that war was a fuck-up from beginning to end. He had no control over that. And for what parts he had control over he could be proud. Maybe if he'd been born ten years earlier or ten years later or to different parents in a different part of the world things would be different, then maybe he'd be a corpse on the side of the road in Bosnia or Syria or Somalia, not a man waiting for a coworker to pick him up, hoping he might get shot at tonight so that a bunch of idiots in a cozy neighborhood in Lexington would take their proper place in his mental list of priorities – butt-fuck dregs last.

There it was. Really, he had nothing to complain about. He was happy to see Raylan when he flagged him down. Raylan pulled over and Tim leaned in the open window.

"Hey Tim, am I interrupting anything?"

"Nope."

"How'd it go?"

Tim opened the door and climbed in. "Alright. I took your advice – full flask, friend, Super Soakers."

"I don't recall saying anything about Super Soakers."

"I thought you did."

"Uh-uh."

"I could've sworn I heard Super Soakers. Where're we going, anyway?"

"To see about Elvis."

"Did you bring me something to play with?"

"Didn't you bring a Super Soaker?"

Tim rolled his head over and glared. "Raylan, pull over."

Raylan did, chuckling. "Your toys are in the trunk." He waited patiently while Tim loaded up.

* * *

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**Author's Note:** Happy New Year to everyone who celebrates it at the calendar year end! And Happy New Year in advance to anyone who doesn't!


	6. Chapter 6

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Six**

"So, let me get this straight… We're going to talk to two retired legitimately _boring_ business men about their mother who's ninety-something."

"That's right."

"You seriously need me for this?"

"Forgive me, Tim, for interrupting your evening. I thought you'd appreciate an excuse to leave the party early."

"Oh, so _that's_ why you called me." Tim didn't sound convinced. "Doing your good deed for the…year."

"Hey, I do good deeds more than once a year. Though maybe Art threatening to suspend me and void my medical coverage if I didn't take someone along had something to do with it. He seemed a little concerned after reading the file on the Reno hitman you identified."

Tim didn't respond. He was stuck on the fact that he was disappointed at first to think this was going to be a very dull diversion. Miljana would tell him that unhealthy risk-seeking behavior was one possible symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But then she'd sigh and say, _"But you've always been like this, Tim. I have to consider the whole person when I see a trait and try to slot it. Aren't you the idiot who dislocated his shoulder soloing on a rock face when you were in high school? And didn't you volunteer for Airborne and Ranger school? You're quiet about it, but you're a bit of an adrenaline junkie. I'll probably outlive you if you don't give me a heart-attack."_

It was a conversation they'd had more than once, different incarnations but with the same result – she would shrug helplessly and pat him on the head. So Tim thought instead about the Reno hitman standing like he owned the place outside the trailer in Clay County.

"Raylan, who's your source?"

Raylan side-stepped the question, a hitman on his mind too. "I've been thinking about that mob guy. And now I'm thinking that maybe Mrs. Johnson _wants_ me to find Elvis. She gave me the information in such a way that not many folk could interpret it."

"Mr. Hired-Gun Reno managed to find them."

Raylan turned to look at Tim; Tim raised his eyebrows, a considering tilt of his head.

They drove the half hour to Danville and through the town to the south side and stopped in front of a house. The summer sun was just set and the long shadows were replaced by dusky hues of gray, the landscape blurred. The lights were on and there were two cars in the driveway, a Porsche and a Lincoln SUV.

"Nice ride," said Tim, eyeing the sports car. "I should've gone into the used-car business. One of the brothers lives here?"

"Both, actually," said Raylan. "They never married, shared a place their whole lives."

"That's kinda creepy, like Ernie and Bert."

"Ernie and Bert were puppets, Tim." Raylan leaned in a little, whispered. "They weren't real."

"They were real to me growing up."

"I'll bet you related strongly to Oscar the Grouch."

Tim snorted and got out of the car, checked the clip in his handgun, slipped it in the back of his jeans and followed Raylan up to the house.

"Actually," said Tim, "I never really watched Sesame Street. Wrong era. Did you have a favorite?"

Raylan knocked at the door. "Grover. I had a thing for superheroes. I liked his cape."

Raylan was about to knock a second time when Tim heard the familiar whistle of a round passing close by his head. It hit the door and went straight through. Reacting on instinct, Tim grabbed Raylan and pulled him down onto the concrete pad that was the front stoop and they both scurried behind the concrete planter conveniently lining the street side of the pad. A second round whistled past and splintered the wooden frame of the door.

"Suppressed rifle," said Tim flatly. "Mr. Reno, maybe?"

One of the front windows behind them shattered outward and a barrel poked out and started liberally spraying bullets into the front yard. Raylan yanked Tim backward, toward the house this time, underneath the muzzle of the automatic rifle just visible now. Whoever was across the road abandoned stealth and started shooting at the house in earnest and in force. Another round from the rifle, all but lost in the hail of bullets, thwacked the siding inches from Tim's head and he flinched and moved closer to Raylan. They both had their guns out, useless but oddly reassuring.

"What the fuck's going on? I thought you said they were boring and legitimate."

"You're the one who called them boring," said Raylan.

"We gotta move. We're getting it from both sides."

"Where exactly do you want us to go?"

"Somewhere else!"

Tim sprinted for the corner of the house and dove behind some shrubs, Raylan following. They crawled on their elbows to the back ducking underneath the windows and leaned against the siding in the shadows to assess their situation. Raylan called in for backup.

"What the fuck?" Tim repeated, peering through the gloom into the trees beyond a small grass yard, wondering who might be out back. There was muzzle flare and yelling and more sounds of gunfire in the brush beyond. A stray round passed close by.

"I'm going inside," said Raylan. "Whatever's in there, it's gotta be safer than this."

He crouched over and ran to the back door, slipped between it and the screen and tried the handle. It opened inward and he paused, dropped low fast as a shotgun blast blew the screen off its hinges. Tim stepped into the doorway and fired once hitting the shooter, then he hurdled Raylan and rushed into the house's kitchen and took cover behind an island. Raylan slipped in too, fired twice as another man with a handgun appeared at the door from a hallway, forced him back.

"Shit, I don't even know who I'm shooting at." He squatted down beside Tim and peeked around the edge of the cupboards and called loudly, "US Marshals. I'm looking for Fred or Edward Flynn. Set your weapons down and identify yourselves and we won't shoot you."

"I might've just shot Fred or Ed," whispered Tim.

Raylan peered around the corner of the counter again, eyed the body on the floor with the shotgun and tried to identify him in the dark. He jerked his head back quickly when another muzzle appeared from the hall and the room around them came alive, lead chewing into and through everything, pots, pans, dishes, windows, refrigerator, tins, cupboards, then click, empty, the sound of a magazine hitting the floor. Raylan and Tim leaned around each side of the counter and fired, chasing their attacker out of the room.

Then all went quiet. Tim wet his lips. "Fuck, this is _not_ boring."

"Now what?" Raylan whispered.

Tim motioned that he was going for the doorway to the hall; Raylan nodded and stood to cover him but there was nothing, no one. Tim tiptoed across the debris-strewn floor and Raylan came around the other way and the two of them moved into the hall cautiously then peered into the next room and the next.

"Clear."

"Clear."

When they reached the front door, Tim turned to Raylan and shrugged.

They stood a moment, guns still up, perplexed, then Tim stepped into the living room and pulled the curtain back, a tiny movement, to peek outside. A bullet smashed through the glass six inches in front of his nose and thudded into the couch.

"Fuck me." He was down on the floor, back to the wall, gun at the ready again.

Raylan ran over.

"Tim?"

"I'm fine. I wish I had my rifle though." He glared accusingly at Raylan.

"I honestly didn't think you'd need it."

"What kind of a boy scout are you?"

"Well, the guy's clearly a lousy shot. He's missed us every time."

"No, he's not a lousy shot. He's not half bad. You're just used to me, is all."

Raylan considered it. "Is this you being modest?"

"This is me being blunt."

"_Do_ you ever miss?"

"Of course, I miss. Everybody misses. I just do it less than everybody else."

"Oh." Raylan took off his hat and scratched his head. "Well, we can't stay in here all night. What would your guys do in a situation like this?"

"What? You mean in the Rangers?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, call in artillery, or a Kiowa or two."

"A what?"

"Hot-ass little scrapper helo with guns. Or an Apache. Either one would be awesome right now."

"Well, no shit, but that's not much help here."

Another round impacted the wall at the back of the room.

"If it was just one guy, a sniper, mostly I'd deal with it." He glared again at Raylan. "But I don't have my rifle, do I?"

"So then what?"

Tim huffed. "We'd find a safe – or _safe-ish_ anyway – egress. Failing that someone would have to sneak around, flank the guy."

"You volunteering?"

"That was a _last _option. That's why I mentioned it _last._ You'd have to be desperate."

Raylan put his hat back on, ready to move. "Egress it is then. Let's go out the back, see if we get shot at."

Tim kept low, followed, bumped into Raylan in the hall when he stopped abruptly. Raylan knocked on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"It's loose. Listen." He knocked again then started feeling around in the dark. There was a latch; he pulled on it and the floor opened up. Raylan pulled out a flashlight just bright enough to show a ladder and a large excavated area under the house. He leaned in and explored what he could. "Well, shit, will you look at that. There's a tunnel under here."

He sat up and smiled at Tim. "Egress?"

Then a screech of a megaphone and a voice boomed from outside interrupting any reply from Tim. "This is the FBI. We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands in the air."

Tim spun around and leveled his gun at the front door, tense.

"Well, shit," Raylan repeated, confused. "FBI? What're they doing here?" He put a hand out, laid it on Tim's shoulder. "Tim, I think Art might get upset if you shot a Fed."

"They were shooting at us!"

"You don't know that now."

Tim turned an angry look at Raylan. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, well…you gotta cut them some slack. They're stupid."

"And dangerous."

"It's an ugly combination."

"I am not putting down my gun."

Raylan talked Tim into surrendering.

* * *

"And then I called out, _we're plain-clothes Deputy US Marshals. Please, don't shoot._ And we came out nicely and they cuffed us…not so nicely."

"They said you were shooting at them." Art was standing in front of the Flynn house trying to understand why his Saturday night was being spent in Danville rather than at home on his couch watching some sport or other. "They said they identified themselves and you started shooting at them."

"They fucked up, Chief, and they know it. They're just covering their asses," Tim said. "We never fired a shot outside the house and I can prove it. I can tell you where every single one of my bullets hit. Every single one can be accounted for. Raylan's too."

Art stared at Tim like he was surprised to find a well-formed English sentence coming out of his mouth. "Shut up, Tim. I'm trying to get this story straight." He turned back to Raylan. "And that fellow you shot inside…"

"Tim shot him."

"You shot him?"

"He shot at Raylan."

Raylan nodded. "He did."

Art was staring again. "Who is he?"

"We don't know," Tim answered.

"Shut up, Tim. I'm not talking to you. Raylan?"

"I don't know," said Raylan. "Why don't we ask Agent Dweeb and his gang of Feebs? I'm pretty sure they know."

Tim snorted. "That'd be a good band name if…"

"Tim, shut up. I can't think straight with both of you blabbing."

Tim leaned back against the FBI van and crossed his arms and watched the coroner zip up a body. Beyond that an agent was standing. He was holding a rifle. Tim pushed off the van and walked between Art and Raylan and past the gurney to the marksman.

"Hey, asshole."

The Fed turned.

"Hey, who gave you the go-ahead?"

"What?"

"I said who gave you the green light to shoot at us?"

The agent grinned.

"You think that's funny?" said Tim.

"You diving behind the planter was funny."

Tim rushed him, tackled him, knocked him to the ground. He landed on top and tried to pin the agent and throw a punch.

"You fucking asshole!" Tim aimed around the arms, a fist punctuating angry words. "You're lucky I didn't have my rifle. You wouldn't be laughing when I shot you in the fucking face!"

All the forced posturing and stiffness and contained feelings were abandoned as everyone present jumped in to separate the two snipers. Art ended up with Tim in a bear hug, dragging him back to his car.

Raylan got in the middle of it all, pointed a threat in a finger at the FBI marksman who was on his feet and puffing out his chest and making to follow. "Don't," Raylan said. "Don't. Or I'll help him." He turned away and headed over to assist Art who had his arms out corralling Tim against the car.

Tim was pacing inside his two-foot cage and repeating, "Fuck, fuck, fuck…"

"Raylan, take Tim. You two get the hell out of here. I'll stay and sort things out. Go have a drink or something."

"Alright."

Art followed them, solicitous, all the way to Raylan's car, shut the door when Tim got in. "Go home. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

They were a tense fifteen minutes down the road when Raylan said, "You got that flask with you?"

Tim undid his seatbelt and leaned over the seat for his bag, pulled out his cache of whiskey and opened it and handed it to Raylan. Raylan took a good gulp and passed it back. Tim had one too, and another.

"The Cookie Monster was a favorite," said Raylan. "One of the clearest memories I have of my mother was her getting angry at me for getting crumbs all over the sofa. It'd piss off Arlo but I liked to pretend I was the Cookie Monster and I'd try to eat like him. You don't actually get much cookie in your mouth."

Tim put his seatbelt back on when the car's warning chime started up. "I liked Elmo," he said. "He was always so fucking happy."

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Seven**

"The third of four and the only girl…isn't that how you grew up? You just can't escape this, can you?" Steve pulled into the driveway in Tim's truck, nodded over to the three Marshals sitting on the front porch drinking beer.

"No. I seem doomed to it, don't I?" Miljana said. "Maybe I should start dating Professor Dane, dump Tim, change my pattern."

"Oh, God, no. She's horrible. I couldn't be your friend then. And I'd miss our talks. I have to confess too – he's grown on me. He's very entertaining, your Tim."

"_My Tim_ – like I own the idea."

"Not an idea. It's very real with him."

Miljana had stayed at the party until the bitter end, Steve steady beside her. She felt it might be politic, making up for the obscene but innocent breaking of house rules – the Super Soaker war – by her partner and her best friend, thus guilty herself by association. She had told Steve he could leave but he'd replied that he felt it his duty to protect Tim's interests while he was off fighting crime. He then gestured suggestively at the clown making balloon figures across the yard, gave Miljana a serious look. And so they talked happily until after midnight. It was rather pleasant. Everyone avoided them and Miljana understood for a time how Tim felt. She didn't really mind being ignored, not with Steve for company, but it rankled.

"Stay a little longer?" she invited opening the door to the truck. "I'll introduce you to Raylan and Tim's boss, Art. All three of them are entertaining. You can tell me what you think later."

"I'll tell you what I think right now – that cowboy hat has got to go. Having said that, I have some friends who would find it very attractive, particularly if it came with assless chaps and…"

"Stop."

"Prude. Missionary position for you, dear?"

"I said stop. I'm certainly not going to discuss my sex life with you. You'll get all Freud on me and turn me frigid. You're like Mr. Freeze." She could hear Steve laughing even after she'd climbed out of the truck and slammed the door.

Tim stood up to greet them, introduced Steve and snuck behind the handshaking to kiss his girl. Miljana smiled then frowned at the small cuts and a bruise just discernible in the dull glow of the porch light. She reached up a hand and touched his cheek gently.

"Were you in a fight or did you and Raylan get shot at again?"

"Yes," said Art, false cheerful, "And Tim is going to get me another beer. Aren't you, Tim?"

It wasn't a question. It was a command and a punishment and Tim tucked his lower lip in, looked sheepishly at the floor.

Steve opened the screen door. "Better make it a round. Do you need a hand?"

"I'll go." Miljana waved Steve to a free chair and followed Tim inside. She cornered him in the kitchen. "What happened?"

"Fuck if I know. Ask Raylan, though I doubt he knows more than me."

Her face creased into concern and he started kissing the lines where they appeared, working his way down to her lips.

"Maybe you should stick to Super Soakers," she mumbled against his face. "They're less dangerous."

"And less accurate."

She pulled away. "I think that's the point. You got in a fight?"

"Somebody pissed me off."

"Tim," she said simply, scolding.

He turned away and started passing her beer bottles from the fridge. "We're down to cans after this," he said.

"Tim."

He shut the fridge door with more force than it needed. Something rattled and fell over.

"The FBI was shooting at us and it pissed me off. They could've killed us. You know, I thought I got away from all that jumpy, trigger-happy bullshit when I quit working in war zones. Fuck." He fished around in a drawer for an opener and started prying the caps off the bottles. "I don't want to talk about it. I'll just get madder."

She got behind him and laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his chest. "I had fun having the water fight with you," she said.

"Yeah. Me, too."

"So did Steve."

They both giggled.

Steve was showing off his tattoo when they arrived back on the porch with the beer.

"That's a beauty," said Raylan. "Cooler than Tim's."

Tim defended himself. "It's a fake!"

"It's still cooler than yours."

"You should see the one Miljana's got on her…"

"Tim!"

"I'm just saying it's cool. It's a compliment." Tim shrugged it off.

"What is it with you kids and your tattoos?" Art held up an arm, contemplated the virgin skin. "Do you think I should get one?"

"No." Raylan said what they were all thinking then changed the subject. "So what'd the feds say, Art? You were about to tell us."

"I got nothing. They wouldn't tell me squat. But they did pull two more bodies out of the house."

"So Fred and Ed are dead."

"Shot in the head."

The Marshals snorted, chuckled. Miljana and Steve exchanged horrified looks.

"Anyway," Art continued after giving the joke a minute to enjoy itself. "I told them I wanted an explanation or I'd open an investigation into what happened there tonight. They said they'd come by tomorrow. I wouldn't hold my breath hoping you'll get an apology out of them."

"I'd just like to know what the hell's going on."

"I wouldn't hold my breath on that, either."

There was a sober sipping of beer and everyone sank a little lower into their chairs, tired. Art decided it was his job to keep up the conversation.

"So where're you from Steve? I'm not hearing any Kentucky in you."

"Connecticut," he replied. "I took a job at the University here. I teach Psychology. That's how I met Miljana."

Raylan made a face, the same face he reserved for anyone in Kentucky not from Kentucky. "Why Kentucky?"

"I followed a boy," Steve said. "I know – cliché." He smiled, remembering. "He was brilliant at training horses and wanted to be here. It didn't last. But I fell in love with Kentucky as I fell out of love with Brett, I couldn't leave."

Art and Raylan nodded mutely in understanding, like it could've happened to them too.

* * *

Tim sat at his desk, his head down talking on the phone to his girl. "So what'd she do this time?"

"She said she'd understand if your work got in the way of you going."

"What, to the wedding or the bachelor party?"

"Both."

Tim was glad Miljana couldn't see his grin. "Seriously? I don't have to go?"

"No, Tim. You're going. She's just being a bitch. It's her passive-aggressive way of uninviting you."

"I don't mind."

"I do!"

"Alright, okay. Calm down."

"I just might uninvite myself."

"Hey, then we can go to Campton that weekend instead. I'll take you over to that swimming hole by the Stone Bridge and we…"

"Tim."

Miljana's voice wore a bare coating of patience and Tim sighed as another escape route was cut off.

There was a bustle of activity near the doors to the hall and Art passed in front of Tim's desk. Tim looked up and recognized the intruders by the uniform. It was a flock of Feds in suits, no smiles. Tim caught himself thinking that their jackets were badly cut, the holsters bulging out the fabric.

"Shit, sweetheart, I gotta go. Feds are here. Look, you do what you need to do. I'll be where you need me to be."

"I need you to be with me."

"I got your six. See you tonight."

He hung up and narrowed his eyes at the visitors, looking through the faces to see if the Fed with the rifle had dared to show up.

Raylan stood up from his desk and leaned over, lifted a finger, a pause, a look. "Now Tim, remember, Art won't be happy if you shoot one of them. We have a dress code in effect – bullets have to keep their jackets on in the office."

Tim shrugged. "Okay, then, so not here."

The Marshals and the Feds grouped around the table in the conference room. There were enough chairs but Tim refused to sit, leaning against the wall near the door with his arms crossed and his face crosser.

Neither Art nor Raylan made a move to open the conversation and the ensuing silence sniffed around everyone's feet begging for scraps. Art kept his eyes on the lead agent, a woman about his age. She stared back, eventually said, "What do you want from us? An apology?"

Raylan took a breath and leaned forward, looking around Art at the woman. "We want to know exactly what you were doing at that house."

A few looks were exchanged; there was some shuffling then a file came out and the senior agent said, "Human trafficking."

"Human trafficking," Raylan repeated, disbelief and a snort, "at Fred and Ed's Used Car Dealership."

"That's right. They've been working for years with a group out of Nevada – like an underground railroad. They were moving girls out of Eastern Europe through New York and Miami, holding them safely out of sight in Kentucky while they fake their papers then on to Las Vegas and Reno where they put them to work."

"Reno?" Raylan and Tim tossed the question between them silently.

The agent ignored Raylan's interjection. "We've been setting up this bust for…" She huffed angrily. "But you boys and your Wild West show blew it."

"_Our_ Wild West show…?" Raylan was on his feet.

Art stepped in, motioned Raylan back to his seat and said, "Excuse me, but _my boys_ were knocking politely on a door while following a lead on a federal fugitive when _your boys_ shot at them without identifying themselves first. I think the Wild West show was all between you and whoever was in the house." Art pulled a file of his own. "Now I have here the statements from both of my Deputies and a request for an investigation into the events of last night which has been reviewed and given the nod by the US Attorney's office. I think we'd be willing to discuss losing this file if you were to own up to your part in the fiasco in Danville and share some information with us."

"Are you threatening me, Chief Deputy Mullen?"

"No, that was me being reasonable. I think it would be safer for everyone if we were cooperating. Now, _this_ is me threatening you. Tim here is going to bring his rifle the next time and I'm giving him carte blanche to shoot back, especially if there's FBI written anywhere on his target, and I promise you my boy is a better shot than your boy."

"We were even standing still for you," Raylan added. "What did you call us, Tim…fish in a barrel?"

The woman tapped a finger against the table, eyes flickering from Art to Raylan to Tim. "Can I speak with you alone, Chief Deputy Mullen?"

Art offered her a thin smile. "Call me Art."

Tim was first out of the room. Raylan came up beside him at the kitchenette where he was pouring himself a coffee.

"Make it two," he said and Tim reached for a second mug.

One of the Feds spoke behind Raylan. "Can we get a coffee, too?"

Tim turned to face him, tilted his head, dismissed him. "There's a cafeteria downstairs."

The agent threw out his arms. "What's your problem? It was an accident," he snapped. "Are you ever going to get over this?"

Raylan dealt with the question this time. "What? You shooting at us?"

"Yes."

"No," Raylan and Tim spoke in chorus, pushed past and locked themselves in Art's office.

Tim plunked himself on the couch. "Fuckers."

"Unbelievable."

Raylan walked around behind Art's desk and sat in his chair so he could keep an eye on both the agents milling in the bullpen and Art's pow-wow in the conference room. His eyes drifted down to the bottom drawer and he pictured the bottle lying in it. Tim caught the intention and it drew a grin from him and he shook his head.

"Yeah, I know," said Raylan. "He's got a sixth sense, some kind of psychic link to his stash. He'd look up and see me just as I was pouring."

"What's going on in there?"

Raylan squinted through the glass at his boss. "Well, he looks interested. Maybe she's actually giving him something."

"They're gonna say you have to back off finding Elvis."

"Yep."

"So…"

"So, I'm gonna find Elvis and get our $50,000 back. You in?"

"Okay."

Raylan looked surprised that Tim would agree so easily.

Tim sipped at his coffee, thoughtful. "It'd be fun to get in their face. And maybe we'll get shot at again only this time they won't miss and then I won't have to go to the wedding."

"But then I might have to go to a funeral."

"Me, too."

Raylan thought about it. "Right."

* * *

"Now, Raylan," Art said later as he poured. "I'm to tell you that you are _not_ to go looking for Elvis. Got it?"

"Yep, Art, I got it. You told me."

"Excellent. My job is done. I'm happy to cross that off my to-do list." Art made a slashing motion in mid-air as he handed a glass of bourbon each to Raylan and Tim. "Here's to having one over on the Feds. It was a nice change. Sit and I'll tell you what she told me. It's surprisingly uninteresting."

* * *

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	8. Chapter 8

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Eight**

Tim was typing madly, trying to get a report finished before quitting time. He was a two-finger typer typically, sometimes four got involved if he was feeling dexterous or rushed. Today he was distracted and rushed, not a good combination, typos popping up every third word, and he considered banging his head on the keyboard instead. He muttered a string of curses, trying to keep his cool. He'd promised Miljana he'd pick her up from the lunch shoe shopping that was oozing obscenely, her words, into afternoon shoe shopping. He was trying to clear his desk so he could be there for her. She needed a rescue.

"Fuck," he muttered, watching on the screen as 'Gutterson' came out 'Mutterson', a finger Freudian. Eventually he glared down at his hands, narrowing his eyes at them as they moved on the keyboard, watching his errant digits closely. Someone cleared a throat nearby and Tim lifted his head for a quick look when he heard his name spoken and caught movement in front of his desk. Two Lexington Police officers were depositing a man into the chair beside him.

It was Boyd Crowder and he grinned maniacally. "Why, good afternoon, Marshal. Deputy Gutterson, if I recall correctly. You're looking at that keyboard, son, like it's armed and dangerous. Are you off your meds?"

"What the hell?" Tim ignored Boyd, stood up knocking his chair over backward and looked to the officers for an explanation. "What are you doing?"

The officer closest shrugged. "I was told by dispatch to pick up a Mr. Boyd Crowder from lock-up and deposit him into the care of Deputy Marshal Gutterson at the Federal Courthouse. That's you, isn't it? Have a nice afternoon."

They turned and headed for the door. Tim hopped the overturned chair and skirted wide of Boyd Crowder to get to them.

"No. Wait. No, no, no! Hold on a minute. I never…"

Art leaned out from his office just then, called over, "Tim, Raylan's on line two. Pick it up."

Tim watched the officers disappear into the hall, glanced back at Boyd who grinned again.

"Fuck!" He leaned over and lifted his phone, punched line two. "Raylan, I haven't got time for this. I have to be across town by 6pm sharp, and right now the little hand's on the four and the big hand's near the nine..."

Art strolled out past Tim's desk, narrowed his eyes at Boyd, shook a finger at Tim. "Language, Tim. We've had complaints."

Tim stuck out his tongue when Art had his back to him. Boyd did, too. Tim glared down at him and Boyd restructured his face back into a maniacal grin.

Not really listening to Raylan's convoluted explanation, Tim jotted down the address supplied near the end of the rambling, slammed the phone down and said loudly, "Shit. I can't do this." He looked around the office for someone to pass the task off too, came up empty. "Shit," he repeated more loudly. "This day is already fucked."

"Tim, watch the swearing!"

"Jesus, it's not like we're running a daycare!"

"I'm not so sure about that," Art said, angry now, striding back over. "Watch the effing language."

"For fuck's sake," Tim said under his breath, gestured impatiently for Boyd to stand up.

"Tim!"

"Alright, alright. For _fudge_ sake. But you know that just doesn't sound as good!"

Art flipped him the finger.

"Effing, freakin', dang-blasted day." Tim continued grumping as he collected his wallet and backup, took Boyd by the arm and marched him across the bullpen and out the doors. "Sugar-coated, Sam Hill, golly-dangnamit, fricking..."

* * *

He followed the GPS directions to the address Raylan had given him, got on the Lexington Road and drove south past Nicholasville then turned onto a side road then another road west and north and pulled over when he saw the Town Car. It had taken forty minutes to get there. There was no way he was making it back to Lexington by six.

"Raylan," he said, opening the door for Boyd, still in handcuffs, "What am I doing here?"

"Tim, thanks for coming. Boyd, glad you could make it."

"I don't recall having any choice in the matter, Raylan."

"Me neither," said Tim.

Raylan ignored them, aimed his look-what-I-got smile at Tim, said smugly, "Elvis Williams Johnson is in that house." He pointed down a dirt road to an old homestead on a rise overlooking the Kentucky River.

Tim was interested despite his frustration. "Really?" He studied the house, the terrain. There was no easy way to approach unseen. He licked his lips. "You sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"Your secret source again?"

"Uh…" Raylan tipped his hat back, grinned like a grifter.

And Tim started to put it together. "Why is Boyd here? Shit. _He's_ your source?"

"Boyd is going to get us in the door."

Boyd snorted. "Raylan, you must think me a miracle worker."

"Only if miracles could be performed by fast-talking."

Tim was eyeing Boyd, even less happy to see him than before. "Boyd's your source? Raylan, can I talk to you a minute." Tim led Raylan down the road a few steps. "Are you serious? He probably set us up to get in the way of the Feds. Maybe he's working this human trafficking thing, or trying to muscle the Flynns out, or something…" Tim trailed off, his imagination not big enough for what he thought Boyd capable of.

"Boyd knows the old lady. I don't. I only saw her once or twice sitting in her car while Arlo spoke to Ted Johnson."

Tim clearly wanted to find some reason to hate the plan.

"You said you were in," Raylan reminded him. "And maybe we get to piss off the Feds."

Tim frowned then twisted it into a grimace. "Okay." He turned and walked back to Boyd. "So what's the plan?" he asked, pulling his sidearm and checking the clip.

"You can't bring that, Tim."

"What d'you mean, I can't bring my service piece? What's the point of having it?"

"She'll know you're a Federal." Raylan made a face, pointed. "That Glock, that holster."

"So?"

"I don't want to spook her. We're gonna drive up and knock and Boyd here is gonna talk us in. We can't go looking like we're here to arrest anyone."

"And that's gonna work?"

"It's worked before."

Tim looked to Boyd for reassurance. Boyd shrugged. "Personally, I think you both wear the law enforcement look like a permanent tattoo, but, though it pains me to say it, Raylan does have a point – Glocks and holsters are very official. It's a dead give-away."

"Okay, fine." Tim stomped to the back of the SUV, opened the trunk and stowed his Glock 19 and his holster and picked out a 26 to slip under his shirt.

Raylan followed him, watching. "You're using a 26? Tim, that's a little girl pistol."

"Fuck you, Raylan. I'm already in a pissy mood, so don't start. Besides, I've seen you use one. They hide nicely, these sub-compacts. And I'm not ready to wear the old-man jeans like you and Art. You could hide a Desert Eagle in the waist of those pants."

"Excuse me? _Old man_ jeans? There's nothing 'old man' about a good pair of Levi's."

"Dude." Tim's face was pitying.

Boyd walked up behind them, added his opinion. "Now Raylan, I'm not one to be a slave to fashion and I would never judge a man by his clothing, but I am in agreement with the young Marshal here. The bootleg Levis are a classic, but the hip younger set is inclined to wear the tighter fitting straight-leg jean like you see on Deputy Gutterson and myself. Consequently, it is difficult to find a place to tuck a concealed weapon that is comfortable and doesn't get caught up when you need access to it in a hurry. A Glock 26 is a good choice, though I myself prefer the action on a Springfield XD-S." Boyd inclined his head at Tim. "You might want to try one. It's slimmer than the Glock and it has more features."

"I've heard good things about them, but I whet my teeth on a Beretta. It took me long enough to get used to this tiny thing." Tim waved his Glock 26 around. "I tried the slimmer ones, but they just don't feel right."

"I do understand your preference. Being ex-Army and all, I too am more accustomed to a heftier weapon. Are you formerly of our country's military?"

"Ranger."

"Ah." Boyd nodded. "Well then you'd understand my inclination to carrying a Beretta for old time's sake. But I confess, I do like the shine on a nickel M1911." Beelzebub couldn't have produced a better grin. "It reminds me of days playing Cowboys and Indians as a youngster with a dollar store cap gun."

"Yeah, that's a pretty handgun. Not my thing though – too flashy. Personally, I'm a rifle…"

"Gentlemen," Raylan said, looking back and forth between them, incredulous. "Can we do this sometime over coffee? I think Starbucks allows firearms." To Tim, "And I thought you had somewhere you had to be?"

Tim glared, annoyed at having the conversation interrupted. "I'm waiting on you, Raylan…as usual."

Raylan pulled out his keys and unlocked the cuffs on Boyd and the three men got in the Town Car and pulled up to the house and stepped out into the sunlight.

"You want me around back?" Tim looked eager offering to run around behind the house.

"No, there's a hundred foot drop to the river out the back. Elvis ain't going anywhere except out the front or out the sides. We'll see him before he gets too far."

Boyd knocked and waited and grinned back at Raylan when a tiny old woman in a flowered dress, slippers and a home-made apron answered the door.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

Boyd put on some old-fashioned charm. "Ma'am, I don't know if you'll remember me – Boyd Crowder. And this gentleman is Raylan Givens, Arlo's son." Raylan twitched slightly. "We're friends of a man named Elvis Johnson. We understand he's kin, a cousin, and might be staying here and we're hoping to have a word, catch up on old times."

"Oh, of course now, I remember those names – Crowder and Givens." She spoke loudly, maybe deaf. "Come on in and I'll fetch him for you. I just need to get my cookies out of the oven."

_Cookies._ Raylan mouthed the word at Tim, chuckled and stepped confidently into the house, taking off his hat to be polite. They walked through to the kitchen, Raylan engaging the elderly woman with questions: _How do you know Elvis? Has he been staying here long? _Tim passed by the kitchen table, a hungry eye lingering over the cooling rack of oatmeal and raisin treats lined up in rows, browned perfectly on the edges, still warm enough to send an enticing aroma into the air. He licked his lips, pulled his gaze away and shifted it to the back room and out the back window just in time to see a red shirt and blue-jean legs running like a rabbit toward the trees beyond the yard.

"Shit. Raylan!"

Tim skirted the old sofa, hopped the coffee table and pushed open the screen on the back door, out and down the steps and across the yard, hurdled the fence and kept running. He was gaining on Elvis, dodging branches and weaving around tree trunks. He came clear of the woods again on the other side, put the brakes on hard, skidded to a halt just shy of air and wind and a hundred-foot drop to the Kentucky River. He watched horrified as the man he was chasing ran straight off the edge and kept going.

Raylan came out of the woods seconds behind him. "Where is he? Did you see where he went?"

Tim pointed. "He jumped."

"What?"

"He went straight that way."

Tim gestured out to the drop and the river. Raylan took two tentative steps forward, leaned a bit to try and see down without standing on the edge.

"Well…shit."

Tim walked past where Raylan was standing, his foot right up to the cliff edge, peered over and said, "Elvis has left the building."

"Tim."

Tim turned his head.

"Fetch." Raylan threw a stick angrily off the cliff, turned and stomped back to the house.

Tim stayed and watched it fall and splash into the river. He couldn't see Elvis anywhere.

Boyd was feasting on fresh baking and laughing, sitting politely at the kitchen table as his hostess put on the kettle. "Yes, ma'am, that's what I told them – they just _look_ like Federals, don't they?"

"I may be old but I'm not dead yet," she said. "I know Arlo's son is a US Marshal. I bet Arlo's proud seeing his boy turn out so well."

Raylan walked up behind Boyd in time to hear the last remark, reached over Boyd's shoulder and snatched the cookie Boyd had poised for consumption. "Arlo certainly was surprised," he said, then matter-of-factly, "Elvis just jumped off the cliff into the river."

"It's a nice day for a swim – so hot. It's supposed to get hotter by the end of the week."

It wasn't the reaction Raylan was expecting. "You're not worried."

"No. The river is quite deep here. I used to jump off that part of the cliff when I was a girl. The boys all did it growing up – Elvis too. It was quite a thrill. I'd probably still do it but I just don't like the cold of the water anymore on these old bones."

Tim appeared at Raylan's shoulder, whispered in his ear, "Do we arrest the old lady for aiding a fugitive?"

She held a plate of cookies out to him. Tim took one. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, now, one's never enough, and you certainly burn off the calories with that much running." She shook the plate a little bit, careful not to lose any, tempting him.

Tim smiled like a kid, stuffed the cookie in his mouth and helped himself to two more.

* * *

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	9. Chapter 9

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Nine**

Tim left Boyd with Raylan trying to convince Ms. Flynn to accept protective custody, the two, each from one side of the law, working together this time. Tim recognized early in the conversation that Raylan had met his equal for stubbornness in the old lady and begged off the task. He wasn't the type to try and argue someone to his way of thinking. It was wasted effort to him. Any vain hopes that he might have once entertained of controlling his world beyond the inanimate objects within reach were beaten into submission after Basic training, hopelessly squashed after his first deployment to Afghanistan. The world did as it wanted despite his efforts, and Tim finally, philosophically, just let it happen around him and was happier for it. He jogged out the lane and down the road to the SUV texting Miljana as he went.

_Sorry._ :(

What else was there to say?

_It's okay. I found a surrogate knight,_ she replied.

_Steve?_

_Who else could I trust in my vulnerable state? He's flirting with the bartender._

_Be there in 40min. You can flirt with me._

_With you, anything's flirting. I could be picking my nose._

_No sexting when I'm at work!_

_lol_

He made it to the table in thirty-five minutes. He knew where to find them. Steve stood up and strolled to the bar when he saw Tim walk in, came back with three different brands of beer and passed them around.

"That's the most beautiful thing I ever saw." Tim reached a hand over for his preference. "Except for you," he added quickly to Miljana, "of course."

"Sigh." Miljana spoke the word, head in her hands leaning on the table, batted her eyelashes, a mealy smile.

The routine stopped Tim with the mouth of the beer bottle an inch from his lips. "Sarcasm?" he asked, his eyes flicking to Steve for help.

"No, it's India Pale Ale. You had it the last time you were here," Steve answered, no help at all.

"_Lots_ of sarcasm, and that's why I like my beer bitter." Tim leaned over out of his seat and kissed Miljana repeatedly until Steve called a halt.

"So?" she said, appeased. "Story?"

"Raylan, Elvis," expressive eyes, "…again."

"I thought Art told Raylan he wasn't supposed to be chasing after Elvis anymore."

"Nah." Tim waved her doubt away. "Art might've _said_ that but what he _meant_ was, 'don't tell me about it.' It's all in the tone. He's covering his ass if the shit hits but really he loves seeing the Feebs all riled up. It's a hobby."

Steve piped in. "Did you say 'Elvis'? You were chasing Elvis? That's so…1950s."

"I chased him right off a cliff."

"Did you follow him off?" asked Miljana.

"No, sweetheart. I didn't have a parachute."

"Neither did Buddy Holly."

"He didn't jump so much as fall."

"So Elvis _is _dead?" Steve was trying not to grin.

"Maybe. Maybe not. He went into the river."

"Like Jeff Buckley."

"No, they found _his_ body and he went into the Mississippi River, not the Kentucky River."

Steve leaned back, smiled over at the bartender, turned again to Tim and said, "So, Elvis might still be alive. I wonder if my LP collection will be worth more or less once word gets out."

* * *

She put on the powder blue shoes that cost her more money than she had to spend, and took off everything else and was standing there in the bedroom when Tim came up from downstairs. He stood staring a moment then tossed the lockbox he was carrying with one of his handguns in it over onto the dresser and tossed her onto the bed and took off the shoes and took off his shoes and anything else that might get in the way and he got close to her and let the world do its thing like it would anyway and he enjoyed her, all of her, despite it.

Later they were curled up and nothing between them but an easing of sweat and the pull of sleep and Tim was smiling without really thinking about it and letting her hair tickle his nose and she said, "What color are the shoes?"

And he, in a dull haze of after-sex, said, "What shoes?"

And she smiled too because his answer confirmed for her everything she knew to be true but needed a reminder of this week in the hurricane of wedding preparations and decorations and ornamentations: it's not the shoes.

* * *

Raylan gestured from the door. "Tim, you busy?" He wasn't really asking.

Art was standing in front of Tim's desk and they were talking weapons. Tim tried once a month to convince Art to bring in some more interesting tactical gear. Art couldn't be persuaded, his argument against the idea never changed. He repeated it, word for word, just like last month, ignoring Raylan yelling over from the door: "You don't miss, Tim. Said so yourself. Why would I bother blowing the budget on extra gear? I got you." He pointed then at Raylan who was now knocking impatiently at the glass door to the hall, gesturing for Tim to hurry up. "And I got Raylan, the one-man wrecking crew. This office is the envy of the United States Marshals Service. I'm the only one who comes in under budget for weapons and ammo and that's even with one of the highest proportional kill numbers."

Tim had to concede Art's point – it was all truth. He ignored Raylan too.

"Tim!" Raylan's voice went up a few decibels. "Grab your shit. We gotta go."

Tim waited for Art to bark at Raylan for the use of the expletive, 'shit.' He was disappointed, then outraged.

"Hey, he just swore."

"Tim, I'm not running a daycare."

"But you were all up in my shit yesterday when…"

"Tim, watch your mouth. What does he want, anyway?" Art tilted his head in Raylan's direction.

"I'd guess he's got a line on Elvis," Tim said, throwing his arms out in frustration.

"Elvis, huh? Well, I'm sure you don't mean Elvis _Johnson,_ so I'll have to assume Elvis…" Art left it open then added, "Now I don't want you two running off to Memphis this afternoon without checking with me first."

"I suggested he try Vegas."

"Seems a good place to start. Bit of a drive though." Art turned, called over to Raylan, "Elvis, huh?"

"That's right. Now if I'm not interrupting anything, can I borrow Tim?"

"Sure. Hell, take everybody. You'd put this office on the map if you found Elvis alive." Art swayed back to his office singing loudly. _"Let's Rock, everybody, let's rock. Everybody in the whole cell block was dancin' to the jailhouse rock."_

Tim added some badly placed notes for the last line.

Raylan held the door, gave Tim a one-handed shove through it when he got there.

"I think I've lived long enough…" said Raylan, striding over to press the elevator button when Tim didn't but meandered a path down the hall continuing a tuneless version of _Jailhouse Rock_. "…long enough when I have to listen to you and Art singing a duet. Someone can shoot me now."

"You gotta hand it to him – the man's got style," said Tim when the elevator doors had closed.

"Who, Elvis?"

"No, Art." He slouched against the side wall.

Raylan pushed him out of the way to press the button for the basement. "I think he should be singing _My Way."_

"I figured that song for you, Raylan. Or wait, maybe it's _T-R-O-U-B-L-E."_

"You're funny. And what about you? What's yours? No, hold on, I got it – _A Little Less Conversation. _Please."

"Not an Elvis fan, clearly."

"No, I like Elvis well enough, before he went all rhinestone anyway." Raylan steered Tim to his car, leading him with a hand on his shoulder, hurrying things along.

Tim didn't seem to get the hint, leaned on the roof of the car, leisurely, and kept talking. "Yeah, that was a bit weird, that whole phase. I had a buddy in the Rangers, he would…"

"Tim, can we continue this on the way?"

Tim shrugged, slumped into the passenger seat, waited until Raylan started the car then continued. "Anyway, this guy would ride the .50 cal on the truck and do Elvis imitations, serenading the locals as we drove past – wiggling legs and all. Fucking nut."

"Is he playing Vegas now?"

Tim shook his head, a vacant look. "Arlington. It's an extended engagement."

"Fuck, Tim. I wish you wouldn't do that."

"What?"

"Brush it off with sarcasm. I don't think that's healthy."

"You know what his favorite song was?" Tim grinned at Raylan.

"Why would I know what his favorite song was?"

"Dude_ – GI Blues,_ of course." Tim chuckled then rolled down the window and bellowed out, _"I got those hup, two, three, four, mother fucking GI Blues."_

"I don't think that's the way it went originally."

"_From my GI hair to the heels of my GI shoes."_

"Tim, stop."

"_And if I don't go stateside soon I'm gonna blow my fucking head off."_

"Stop! Dammit, Tim, what is with you today? You off your meds?"

"You don't like my singing?"

"Nobody likes your singing. I should've asked Rachel to come along."

"She sing better than me?"

"Probably. Who doesn't? Plus she's quieter, she's better looking and she's better company."

"Then why didn't you ask her?"

"Because you're wearing boots."

Tim let a mile or so of road slide by before he asked. "Where are you taking me that I need boots? Raylan, I have to be back to pick up Milja…"

"You always have to be back to pick her up. Does the girl not have a car?"

"Yes, she's got a car. It's in the shop."

"Again?"

"She needs a new one."

"You need a new one."

"No, my truck's fine."

"A new _girl."_

"Nah. She's alright."

They left Lexington behind and headed south. A mile or two more of forest slid by quietly then Tim asked again, "Where are you taking me that I need boots?"

"I got an idea about Elvis. I looked into the old lady's property holdings. She has another piece of land down the river a ways with the original Flynn homestead still on it, unoccupied."

Tim nodded, accepting, or more like resigned. "Okay."

An hour later they were working their way obliquely through the woods to an old cabin. The forest was thick here, unused, matted with underbrush and July heat and moisture from the rain the night before evaporating still, sitting heavily about six feet off the ground waiting for its turn to move up and join the clouds and rain some more. Tim wiped an already damp sleeve over his face, glared over at Raylan. It didn't make him feel any better that Raylan too looked as if he'd swum in from the road. Tim glanced down at his boots, thinking they felt heavy. Mud was caked to the sides and the toe and the heel. He stepped sideways to a rock and scraped off the worst of it.

"Hurry up," Raylan whispered.

Tim swatted at a mosquito. "Do you really think he's going somewhere today in this heat?"

"It's just up ahead."

They approached the cabin silently, eyed the new car that someone had recently driven in along the rutted and overgrown laneway and hidden out of sight of the road. Tim gestured, whispered, "I'm going around back this time."

Raylan nodded his approval and Tim waded off. Raylan looked at his watch, let five minutes pass then approached the front door. He knocked loudly, waited, knocked again and called out, "US Marshals."

His voice frightened a few birds out of the trees, but besides the squawking there was no sound, inside or out. There were no smells either, and Elvis was a smoker. Raylan frowned, was about to knock a third time when he heard a noise behind the door.

It opened and Tim smiled from the other side, said, "Hey."

"What are you doing in there?"

"The back door was open. Elvis has left…"

"Don't. You've worn that one out."

"Fine. But what a missed opportunity. Uh…I think you need to follow me."

Tim led Raylan through the small cabin, pointing out the signs of recent occupation, and into the backyard and back into the woods. The smell hit them a few feet further out.

"Oh, shit." Raylan covered his nose.

"Oh, yeah." Tim pointed along a rough path. "I ran across it sneaking around. Is this guy's name really Elvis?"

"Apparently."

"Must be something to the name then. He's in the shitter. He doesn't smell so good."

"No shit."

"I didn't check."

The odor intensified each step closer, the outhouse now visible. Raylan waved Tim on.

"Oh, no," said Tim. "This is your collar. I'm just back up, remember?" He pulled his sidearm and stepped behind Raylan. "I'll shoot you if you're overcome by the smell 'cause I'm not stepping one inch closer and I wouldn't leave you there like that. That just wouldn't be right."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

His face screwed up in sympathy, Tim holstered his gun and watched as Raylan approached the door of the outhouse. He tapped on it gingerly and opened his mouth to call out when Tim interrupted.

"No, God, don't bother. Too much air. You'll pass out. There's nothing alive in there. I already had a peek."

Raylan glared but recognized the practicality of the advice. He shut his mouth tightly and opened the door. They both gagged. Raylan let it shut and jogged over to Tim.

"Oh, shit," Tim breathed, staggering around with his hands over his nose and mouth.

Raylan was bent over trying to keep his lunch down. "He's bloated," he managed to say, breathing in short gasps. "He must've been there a while."

"Constipated," Tim wheezed, then started to laugh.

"He's not coming out the way he went in, that's for sure." Raylan moaned once, cursed loudly then looked over at Tim. "Oh my God, you're laughing?"

Tim waved him off. "Don't. I can't…" He shook his head quickly and jogged to the front of the cabin.

Raylan trailed after him. Tim was already heading down the two-rut laneway toward the road.

"Where're you going?" Raylan yelled. "Hey, slow up."

Tim stopped, turned. _"I'm _calling it in. I get to call it in. It's the least you could do. Shit, Raylan, this smell is going to be with me for weeks."

"Fine, call it in."

"Wahoo!" Tim walked with his phone out looking for a signal, out onto the road and a ways along. Near Raylan's car he slowed then stopped then dialed, a funny grin on his face. "This is Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson," he said, rattled off his badge number then gave the circumstances. "We have a dead body, possible homicide. We need someone to come help us get Elvis out of the building."

He had trouble completing the request, Raylan was laughing hard now and Tim had to join in.

It wasn't so funny two hours later when someone had to use a Sawzall to cut a bigger door at the side to get Elvis out. Raylan pulled the lumber away and he and Tim stood staring at what looked like bullet holes.

"That's why I said 'possible homicide,'" Tim explained.

"Not even hunting season."

The local Sheriff walked over and Raylan pointed out the neat round holes in the wood. "It's all yours," he said. "Me and Tim, we gotta get back to Lexington." He handed the man his card. "Let me know when you ID the body, would you? And if you find anything else?"

"Sure thing," said the Sheriff. "God, what a smell. You're lucky yours are generally live ones." He had his sleeve up over his nose and his voice sounded funny.

"It'd surprise you how often they're not."

The Sheriff paused after that remark, decided not to pursue it. "Is his name really Elvis?"

* * *

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**Author's note**: Okay, so he's a bit obscure, Jeff Buckley. He does the most heart-breaking version of that sadly overdone but gorgeous piece of songwriting, _Hallelujah,_ by Leonard Cohen. Find it on YouTube: watch?v=y8AWFf7EAc4


	10. Chapter 10

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Ten**

"So?" Raylan hadn't said anything since they left the scene, silent on the way back to Lexington, nothing other than, "Don't get mud in the car," so it split the air like a gunshot in the dead hours of morning when he finally spoke.

"So what?" said Tim, jarred out of his reverie, fond memories of a girl in his bedroom.

"So, what'd you think?"

"Uh…" Tim groped blindly for a reference. "Well, it's definitely one for the books. I figure we can get a bourbon out of it from Art. He'll be happy too, closing out a warrant."

"Tim, you don't seriously think that was Elvis."

"Honestly, I'm not seriously thinking." Tim took a breath in and considered the evidence, shoulders slumping when he put it together. "No, it's not Elvis, is it? Too soon."

"Yep, too soon. There's no way the body would've been that bloated if it was Elvis. We saw him yesterday. That guy's been dead a while, a few days at least."

"So?"

"So, you want to start a pool on who did die in that outhouse?"

"Reno mob."

"That'd be my guess – not much of a pool then if we're both betting on the same thing."

Tim dropped his head back and smushed his hands tiredly over his face. "God, the smell."

"Where's your girl?" said Raylan, a twinge of sympathy. "We can swing by there first. When were you supposed to pick her up?"

"It's probably too late." Tim had sent a text, heard nothing back. He figured that didn't bode well. "She's at the last fitting for the…" he waved a hand chin to knee, "…for the bridesmaid's get-up. The place is just off Main Street."

"It'll be quicker if we go by there first."

"Sure. Thanks."

Raylan maneuvered through traffic, Tim giving directions when they got closer to the shop, a boutique in an old house a block off the main street. They turned the last corner and Raylan slowed the car to a crawl, staring out the windshield at a road block.

"What the hell?" He looked over at Tim.

Tim's eyes were fixed on the scene that greeted them – four LPD cruisers and a tactical team truck – and his heart rattled painfully in his throat but he made a joke of it. "Shit Raylan, maybe she took one of my guns and shot Arlene. Couldn't blame her."

"Arlene?"

"Bridezilla." Tim was out of the car before it rolled to a stop, holding his Marshal's ID up and striding purposefully over to the densest group of uniforms.

"Deputy," the officer in charge said when Tim barged into his asphalt command center, "unless you have a magic solution to my problem, I'd appreciate if you'd step back and let us do our job."

"What's going on?"

"Crazy with a gun holding hostages. Now please, go away."

"Man or woman?"

The odd question bought Tim a reprieve.

"Man. Why?"

"What's his name?"

"Reginald McDonald."

"Fuck. I know that guy. He used to date one of the girls in there. He's got priors. He was asking me once about concealed weapons licenses." Tim pointed at the house. "Look, I know most of the hostages too. Let me go in."

"No."

He laid down his trump card. "I think my girlfriend's in there."

The LPD captain paused. "Then you're _definitely _not going in."

Raylan had sauntered up, moving into the mix, listening. "Excuse me," he said, "but it strikes me that Tim here has a better chance of talking the guy down if he knows him, right Tim?"

Tim nodded.

"I don't think you being involved is a good idea," the officer said and turned away.

Raylan stepped around him and put out a hand to stop him. "How long has this standoff been going on?"

"Three hours."

"Is it just him and a gun?"

"And six hostages. He's poured gasoline all over one of the girls. He's threatening to light her on fire."

"Marissa, right? Blonde, tall?" Tim described her and got a nod. "The ex," he said.

"So it's personal," said Raylan. "How long before he lights a match, turns a gun on one of them?"

"He's been pulled in for assault before." Tim took a breath in, calming himself. "When did he pour the gasoline on her?"

"Uh, when we got here, so a few hours ago."

Tim squinted back over to the shop. "Let me go in. I won't do anything. I'll just see what's what. The girls know me. Reggie knows me."

The officer looked at Raylan.

Raylan shrugged. "It's worth a shot. I'll go with him, back him up. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Alright, but get some vests. You got some vests?"

Tim ran back to Raylan's car to get them.

* * *

"Tim, keep your cool."

"I got a gun. I'm frosty."

"Tim."

"I heard you. I'm fine."

"Let me do the talking."

"Sure. Let me do the shooting."

"Tim."

"Frosty, Raylan – Frosty the fucking snowman." Tim checked his weapon, twice, hid it under his shirt in the back of his pants. "After you."

Raylan squinted hard at his partner, frowned then started across the street to the store, Tim following silently. When he got closer Raylan put both hands in the air and yelled, "Hey, Reggie. I'm a US Marshal – Deputy Givens. I've brought Tim Gutterson with me. I understand you're acquainted. We're coming in, unarmed."

"Don't take another step!"

"Well now, how can we come in if we don't take another step?"

Tim kept walking. "Reggie, it's me, Tim."

"Fuck. What're you doing here?"

"What d'you think? I'm coming to get my dress fitted for the wedding."

Raylan grabbed Tim by the vest, pulled him back and stepped around him and through the door first. "Reggie, is it? Hot day for a showdown. Phew, gasoline, huh? It smells like Harlan barbecue day in here. You'll have me reminiscing."

"State your business then get out of here," said Reggie, waving a revolver. He had the bridesmaids fanned out like a human shield, Marissa closest. He held a gun in one hand, a lighter in the other. The smell of gasoline was strong in the store. Next to Marissa was Miljana, pale, staring hard at Tim as he came through the door. Her lip started trembling when she saw him. Marissa was trembling head to toe, tears streaming down both cheeks from the gas fumes or fear or both.

Raylan took another step in and Tim, out of sync, moved sharply right. Raylan put a smile on; Tim didn't.

"Not a step closer, you hear?" Reggie was trying to look in control. "I'll light her up. I swear I'll do it."

Tim dragged his eyes away from Miljana and spoke to the man with the gun. "Reggie, what're you doing? She doesn't give a shit about you. She doesn't give a shit about her current boyfriend. You really want her back?"

Reggie looked a little lost now that the problem was laid out so succinctly and bluntly. He shrugged. "No, not really."

"Then let's get out of here," said Raylan. "Nothing serious has happened yet."

"If I can't have her, no one can."

"Oh, for... Reggie, that's really cliché. I'm sure she's not worth it."

"She's not," Tim confirmed.

But Reggie was beyond thinking. He lifted his lighter, flicked it.

"No!" yelled Raylan and the room ignited with fear and tension but no flames.

"Do you know how fast gasoline evaporates, Reggie?" Tim said, voice low and even. "You left it too long. You got any more gasoline in that can?"

Reggie stared confused at the lighter, the flame flickering gently, harmlessly, then he brought his revolver up and pushed it against Marissa's head.

"You were always such a bitch," he said.

Tim pulled, aimed, fired, already in position for the shot. The bullet entered Reggie's skull, a spray of blood and he dropped. Marissa started screaming and Tim moved forward quickly, took Miljana by the arm and marched her outside through the crowd and over to the curb and sat her down.

* * *

It was hours before Tim could get Miljana home and alone. There was a trip to the hospital and then statements to the police and he stayed with her when he could. He had his own statement to give and gave it and figured there'd be hell to pay from Art, maybe from Internal Affairs, but he didn't care.

He unlocked the door and held it open, watched her as she brushed past, eyes down, then followed her into the kitchen wondering what he had in store now that she had peeked under the tent at the sideshow and seen the freaks. It was one thing to hear about it, another to be witness to it. She moved like he used to see his guys moving after a particularly brutal patrol, limited, doling out the meager reserves of energy like a circus bear freed of its cage, lumbering, numb until someone whipped it and tapped into that something primal down underneath, stirring.

He poked at the bear. "You've still got blood in your hair."

She sat heavily at the table, her head slid down onto it with a thud. "I hate you right now," she said. "I hate all of it. Don't talk to me."

She obviously didn't enjoy the sideshow, but he didn't expect she would. He'd hoped she'd never see it. _But shit happens_, he thought and he could handle hate, plenty of practice.

"Come on upstairs. Let's get in the shower and I'll wash it for you."

She lifted her head to look at him, angry, upset, her world forever now off its axis. "You're thinking about sex right now?"

He scrunched up his face. "I never said anything about sex. I just offered to wash your hair."

The tears started rolling then. "No. I don't want you to wash my hair. I don't want you to touch me." She was yelling now. "Ever. _Ever."_

Tim swallowed hard, a chill crept over him. "Milja…"

He took a step toward her and she stood up quickly and backed away. "Don't," she sobbed. "Leave me alone. I don't want this. How can you…? God, I wish I still had my apartment."

The chill turned cold. Tim glared at her. "What did I do?"

"What did you do?" She stared, incredulous. "You shot him. You shot him and killed him and I _knew _him."

"That's right. I shot him and I killed him and you knew him and I knew him. Did I miss something?" He had a mask on now, hard, sardonic, bitter. "Oh yeah, I did. He was gonna kill your friend. Remember that part?"

"Did you have to kill him? Is that all you ever do?"

Tim turned and walked out.

He held the screen door as it closed to keep it from slamming, thinking the noise might make him explode, stepped across the porch and down the stairs, past the gate still open. He stopped on the sidewalk and took a breath, looked left then right then chose left for no reason and started down the street, turned right at the end, thinking if he zigzagged he wouldn't end up going in a circle. He was tired of circles. Another left, another right and another left and eventually, hours later, he was past the ring road, past the last suburbs and walking a quiet two-lane stretch past the east border of Lexington.

He was glad he hadn't had a chance to change when he got home, still wearing his boots. His feet weren't tired yet. He was thirsty and he was getting hungry, but he'd been thirsty before and hungry before and he knew it wouldn't kill him, not yet. He kept walking and the pavement disappeared and the road was easier now on his feet.

When it got dark, he climbed a fence into a field and stretched out next to a tree. It was nice and it was quiet and the stars were out. He could see them through the leaves.

After sitting a while he stood up and brushed off and eyed the tree, jumped and caught the lowest branch and hoisted himself up onto it, took hold of the next one for balance and kept going until he figured the branches couldn't support his weight anymore. Straddling the one he was on, he leaned back against the trunk. He felt ten again; it felt good. Eventually, when he started nodding off, he climbed down, stretched out on the grass and ran lyrics through his head until he fell asleep, lyrics of the Elvis tunes that his buddy in the Rangers would sing.

The next morning he woke with a stiff back and a hard knot in his stomach. He was hungry still but it was more than that. He needed to go and fix things with Miljana. He was anxious and edgy and nervous and under all that, sad.

The road was quiet in both directions and his idea of hitchhiking back was abandoned after an hour and a half trudging along the dirt and gravel. He pulled his phone and called Raylan.

"Get your own coffee," Raylan said instead of 'hello'.

"I need a lift," Tim replied.

"Car trouble?"

"I wish."

"Where are you?"

"Fuck if I know."

"…"

"Look, Raylan, just do me a favor and track my phone."

A chuckle. "Okay."

"And bring me a coffee."

"Would you like fries with that?"

"Fuck off," he snarled without much enthusiasm. "A donut would be nice, or a muffin or something, maybe a breakfast burrito from that place…you know. I'm starving."

A pause then, "Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"Anything you want me to tell Art so he can digest it before he sees you."

"Car trouble."

"Why aren't you calling your girl?"

"Car trouble."

"Uh-huh. Okay. Make yourself comfortable. I'll get there when I get there."

Raylan got there an hour later, pulled a u-turn and waited for Tim get in. He nodded at a coffee and a brown paper bag. "Well, this is a switch."

"Thanks for coming."

Raylan shrugged. "I wasn't busy. Art was in a pow-wow with the LPD. I was writing up reports – _both_ incidents. Art was liberal with the bourbon yesterday. You were missed. He was pretty quiet about everything, considering, in shock maybe, or maybe he's saving it up for when you're there. I'm sure the level of sarcasm that would be required for this is exhausting for him."

Tim nodded, sipped gratefully at the coffee, peered cautiously into the bag.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing out here?"

"I took a walk."

"Were you drunk?"

"Nope. Dead fucking sober."

"She upset about yesterday?"

"Yep." Tim left the contents of the bag untouched, sipped his coffee.

"She'll figure it out. That sort of thing, it's a shock the first time."

"Yeah, I know."

"Where do you want me to drop you?"

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	11. Chapter 11

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Eleven**

Steve was seated in his office at the university sipping coffee, in discussion with another professor. Tim caught the word 'automatism' and 'culpability' and might have joined in the conversation if he weren't so distracted. Steve glanced up, his mouth left open mid-sentence when he took in the apparition in his doorway.

"Tim."

Tim raised his eyebrows and chewed his lip. He still had his brown paper bag breakfast and his coffee clutched in a hand. "I can come back," he said.

"Uh," Steve stood up, "No. Stay. Paul, can we continue this some other time? I completely forgot that I had an appointment to go over a case for the Marshals. Tim, this is Professor Paul Stout, and Paul, this is Deputy US Marshal Tim Gutterson."

Tim walked in and shook hands with the older man who clearly wanted to stay and be part of a case with the US Marshals Service but Steve, non-too-subtly, steered him to the door and closed it tightly after him, then he turned around and eyed his surprise visitor.

"What happened?"

"She didn't call you?"

"She left a message, asked if she could come by later."

"You'll want to see her." Tim wiped a hand across his mouth, took a sip of his cold coffee and grimaced at the taste.

"You want some fresh?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Sit. You look like you need the sofa."

Tim sat, staring blankly and worrying Steve. He kept glancing back at the Marshal while he plugged in the kettle and ground some coffee beans and set up his bodum. The aroma of fresh coffee perked Tim up a bit and he sat a little straighter when Steve offered him a mug.

"So?"

"So, I had to shoot a guy and she was there."

"Not pretty?"

"She got blood on her."

"Oh, shit. You mean she was _there."_

"Yeah."

"Uh, you'd better give me the details."

So Tim did.

"Wow." Steve stood up and did a circuit of his office and sat back down again. "Wow. I wonder… Are weddings statistically significant in the rankings of homicide motives?"

Steve was trying to cheer him up a little and Tim appreciated it, smiled weakly.

Steve leaned forward and patted Tim's knee. "She's in shock."

"I know."

"I guess you do."

They shared a look, one man educated, the other experienced in the effects of violence on a person. Steve was out of his league in the present company and felt it profoundly. He got up and fixed another round of coffee and Tim relaxed a little, responding to Steve's easy acceptance of his role in the events.

"Are _you _okay?"

Steve was flipping the focus but Tim neatly deflected. "She's just not the type to shoot somebody. I doubt she can even imagine it."

"No. Me neither."

"It changes you."

"The first time or every time?"

"Oh, uh…the first time…I guess."

"So she fell in love with the metamorphosed Tim Gutterson. You haven't changed since then have you?"

"No, I don't… I don't know."

"She'd kill me if she knew I was telling you, but… You had her in knots for months, did you know that? She was in here like an idiot almost daily hoping I'd talk her out of her crush on you. She thought I hadn't figured out you were a client…patient…whatever. It was good for her, that doubt. I think in order to be a good person, and coincidentally a good psychologist, you have to have experience doing something wrong for the right reasons. It makes you more compassionate and more humble."

"Well then, I should be just about the most compassionate and humble person out there."

"Tim, you're a good guy." Steve smiled. "Despite all the evidence to the contrary."

Tim chuckled, relaxed a little more, sipped at his brew. "Now _that's _coffee."

Steve smiled. "Thank you. Where is she?"

"I dunno. Home? I left last night. She wanted me gone."

"Well, let's find her so you can talk to her, soldier boy. She's had the night to worry about you." Steve pulled out his phone and dialed Miljana. "Good morning, dear," he said, "How're you doing?"

Tim tried to listen to the conversation, tried to hear her voice, to find something in it familiar.

"No, stay there. I'm coming by." He hung up and motioned Tim up and drove him home.

* * *

She was sitting on the floor of the porch, feet down on the top step, head on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs. Tim looked out the window of Steve's car taking in the scene. He hated seeing her there alone.

"Her dad left an hour ago. He spent the night, she said."

Tim turned and stared at Steve, the mind reader.

"Go on. Get it over with." Steve leaned over him and opened the door, started pushing him out.

"Alright, I'm going. Jesus. Fuck off." Tim got out reluctantly, stood there at the curb.

"You two are never boring. Call me later and let me know how she's doing." Steve leaned over again and closed the door and drove off before Tim could change his mind and jump back in.

It was late in the morning, enough noise from the street and the city, but Tim practically tiptoed up the walk. He wasn't sure she was ready for this, considered sneaking past her and getting cleaned up for work, made it to the top step when her arm snaked out and grabbed his leg around the calf and pulled him over so her other arm could get a hold too. She lifted her head from her knee and pressed it against his.

"I'm sorry." Her voice sounded husky. She'd been crying. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault. It was so ugly. Everything and everyone there was ugly, so I was ugly. I still feel ugly. None of this is your fault. I'm so sorry."

Tim dropped his hand on her head and pushed his fingers through her hair. They caught in a knot. She was terrible for not fussing about her hair, wore it trimmed just at the shoulder, long enough to put up which she did most of the time because she was, self-professed, a lazy-ass girl about those sorts of things.

Tim didn't mind. He especially liked it on Saturday mornings when she'd sit drowsily at the kitchen table with her hair in a mess of tangles from the night before. He liked that look, a reminder of a good night. Often she'd not bother working a brush through it until they had to go out and sometimes that meant not until the next day. It was hard enough not thinking about sex every five minutes, like they said men did in that survey he'd read about, without her advertising like that. He told her his feelings one morning and she challenged him to do something about it with a smile and a tongue slipped across her lips. Of course, Tim was never one to back down from a challenge. That kitchen table had some uses besides a convenient place to clean his weapons. He liked that table.

He liked her. She was fun. She was hurting. She was a battle buddy now. He thought he had enough battle buddies and now he had one more.

He sat on the step beside her after untangling his leg from her grip, reached around her shoulders and pulled her close. She dropped her head on his lap and he could see the knot. She still had blood in her hair.

He said, "You've still got blood in your hair. Let me wash it out."

"Sex, sex, sex." A listless attempt to lighten her new world. "Is that all you think about?"

Tim smiled sadly. "Anyway, sex and violence – they're related. It's all over your psychology books."

She tied up his legs again, both of them this time, squeezed. "Stop reading my books."

"Come on," he urged, tucked his arms under hers, lifted. "Let's wash your hair."

She squeezed tighter.

He tugged again.

"Stop it."

Once more.

She let him lead her inside and upstairs and he washed the blood off of her gently and tried not prove her and that survey right about sex, but she was beautiful sad and he took advantage of their nakedness to satisfy a craving for intimacy and she took advantage of the closeness and warmth and affection, something familiar from her old world, wrapped herself around him and cried hard into the running water.

Dried and dressed, he dropped the lid on the toilet seat and sat on it and watched her comb out her hair, rubbed her back awkwardly when she stepped over and plunked herself down on his legs. For once, she was the center of the angst maelstrom in the house, she was the star of the show and he was the one observing. Neither of them was comfortable with the role reversal.

"I don't hate you," she said. "You're my Tim. I love you."

"Well, that's a relief." He cocked his head. "If the damsel in distress didn't fall in love with the man who saved her, what then? Civilization as we know it would crumble."

She set down the comb and framed his face affectionately in her hands and kissed him. "I think it'd be a good thing to see that part of it crumble. I wouldn't miss it. It's such a cliché. Besides, I was already in love with you. It doesn't count."

She picked up the comb and worked at another knot, stopped, dropped her head on his shoulder, stifled a sob. "So this is what you do, huh?"

"This is what I do."

"Jesus. I understand the drinking."

* * *

Art looked up as the door swung closed, narrowed his eyes, beckoned with a finger. It was a finger you didn't dare ignore. Tim skipped stopping at his desk and walked straight to the boss's office.

"Hey, Chief, uh…"

"Is she okay?"

Tim paused, considered.

Art pointed at a seat. "Raylan told me."

A nod. "Yeah, she's a bit upset."

"Oh, I think you underestimate her. I'll bet she's a lot upset."

"Yeah." Tim slumped into a chair.

"You need to be with her?"

"She's talking to Steve. That'll be good for her. They're good friends. He's…" Tim made a straight horizontal line with his hand.

"Okay then, as long as she's not by herself." Art leaned forward and tapped at two piles of paper on his desk. "Eenie, meenie, miny, moe," he said, "catch a bullet by the toe…" He looked pointedly at Tim. "I'm trying to decide which report to get you started on. So many choices."

Drooping a little more down into the chair, Tim wet his lips nervously. "Am I in trouble?"

"No, not really, though, shit, Tim… Did you stop to think? They shouldn't have let you in there, those idiots at LPD. But they did, so they get a share of the spanking. And then there's the lucky coincidence that one of the girls involved is a judge's daughter and she's best friends with the unlucky ex, the almost human torch, whose father works for the governor… But I guess you already know all that."

Tim nodded.

"So you're getting off with just a mild official reprimand and a hearty unofficial thank you from all the daddies. They've all called full of praise for you and Raylan. I'm so sticky I'm going to have to have a shower when I get home." Art stood up, shook a scolding finger, said, "_Don't do it again._ Now go write reports and start with the jilted-boyfriend shooting. With any luck Raylan will've finished the Elvis-in-the-outhouse one all by himself before you get done the other and that'll be his punishment for the visit I'm sure we're going to get from the Feebs as soon as they catch wind of what he's been up to."

It never failed to impress Tim how long a sentence Art could string together without a breath. He sat staring in awe.

"Well, go on. Git."

He skedaddled, hunkered down at his desk and wrote his version of events. His fingers stuttered on the keys when he pictured the scene in the boutique, relived the look of fear on Miljana's face. He was caught unaware in an instant by blood rage, hit head on by a runaway freight train loaded with anger. It took a couple of minutes to do a count to a hundred, longer to run it backward again to zero, his head in his hands. It wasn't enough to return some peace but enough to even out the breathing and loosen the jaw and the fists. He counted back up again to a hundred and tried to imagine their next quiet weekend at the old house. The sounds of the office started to sift through the red, a phone ringing, voices near the door, the fridge closing, footsteps, paper dropped, spattering laughter.

"I'm gonna walk down the street and enjoy some of this sunshine." Art was standing in front of Tim's desk. "That place kitty corner from the gas station has great slushie flavors. You look like you could use a slushie and some sun."

"A slushie and some sun would be great."

"You're buying."

"Okay."

* * *

Tim finished the report and left early. Miljana was on the front porch again, a bit more color in her cheeks and a bucket of ice and beer. She held one out for him and he sat beside her and looked her over carefully. She had a funny expression on her face, like she was caught doing something wrong and rather than feeling contrite was enjoying the prospect of going to hell.

"What?" he said finally, curiosity killing him.

"She's upset."

"Who?"

"Bridezilla." It was the first time he'd heard the word from her mouth.

"She wasn't even there."

"I know. Um…" There was that face again. "Marissa's dress is ruined, the gasoline was hard on it. And, um, the blood won't come off. It won't come off mine, either." The last sentence came out in a rush and then she grinned though her eyes still reflected the violence. "It's too late to make up another one. They can't get the fabric in time. She's…pretty mad. Furious."

"Gee, that's too bad."

She started laughing silently and her eyes filled up and ran over at the same time. Tim wiped his thumb across her cheek.

"Tim, my hero. You saved me from that wicked dress."

"Need any other rescuing? Raylan's fresh outta leads on Elvis."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	12. Chapter 12

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Twelve**

He wanted to follow her to work. He wanted to sit in her office while she did her sessions then sit across from her at lunch while she ate her sandwich then chauffeur her safely home at the end of the day. He wanted to keep her in arm's reach, out of harm's way, always in sight. But he knew that wasn't happening; she wouldn't allow it. There was a moment though, his head still on the pillow, when he considered calling in sick and being her shadow – she wouldn't have to know. Later, dressed and sitting at the table drinking coffee, the sun-drenched day already promising hot, it seemed a bit obsessive. Still, Tim fidgeted, arguing silently with his anxieties.

"What?" Miljana said finally.

"You could stay home today. No one would think any the less of you." He wouldn't look at her.

"That's one word for Miljana and two for Tim." She leaned toward him and pulled him toward her at the same time, touched her forehead to his. "I'm going to work. It'll be better for me to get back at it, and better for you not to indulge your morbid fantasies."

"I have other fantasies we could indulge."

"Do they involve powder blue pumps?"

Tim stared at her, confused. "What?"

She chuckled. "I have to buy another dress. She said it could be anything as long as it matches the shoes."

"What shoes?"

"I love you. I have to go or I'll be late. Remember, the bachelor party's tomorrow night."

"It's still on?"

"…"

"Seriously?"

"…"

"And they still want me there?"

"…"

Defeated, Tim sighed. "For fuck's sake. After everything that…? What does a guy have to _do_ to get uninvited?"

"Arrest the groom?"

Tim considered the idea. "You want me to run his name?"

"No! Just pick me up after work if you can. My car's ready."

He slowed his truck to a crawl nearing her office, eyes surveying the street, searching faces and windows and passing cars. Even after he'd put the truck in park he continued to scan the area methodically and she waited. She waited until he noticed that she was waiting then she leaned over and kissed him.

"I'm fine. Go to work. Don't worry. I'm not worried. It's a rare thing what happened and you know it. I have no crazed creepers after me – well, except maybe you."

"I'm sure John Lennon wasn't worried either."

* * *

"Tim, where's Raylan?" Art leaned out of his office, eyes wandering the bullpen.

Tim had just finished calling Miljana, third time that morning, and was sorting through files on his desk, didn't bother looking up. "I'd have a better chance of knowing where Michael Jackson is."

"Michael Jackson's dead and buried."

"Not according to some of his fans." Tim carelessly dropped the file he was holding, squinted at Art. "Hey, maybe if I find Michael Jackson, I'll find Elvis with him."

"Just find Raylan, will you? I've got the preliminary report on the outhouse murder for him. They didn't have any trouble IDing the body. He had a wallet in his pants, which, according to this very thorough report, were down around his ankles. Raylan's right – it wasn't Elvis."

"Let me see." Tim wiggled his fingers at the end of his reach.

"_Please…"_

"Please, let me see."

Art was feeling relaxed today – no Feds had shown up yet – so he obligingly walked to Tim's desk and handed over the file.

Tim skimmed through it quickly, most of it he and Raylan had already guessed at anyway, but the ballistics summary stopped him cold.

"Shit."

"What?"

".500 magnums – huge fucking pistol ammo." He exaggerated their size, stretched his arms as wide as they could go and his eyes with them.

"Who carries a gun that big?"

"Old ladies, apparently – Smith and Wesson. I gotta find Raylan."

"Gee, what a good idea. Wish I'd thought of it." Art watched as Tim gathered his wallet and phone and headed for the door. "Have fun," he called out, silly little wave, but Tim didn't stop, marched into the hallway texting.

Skipping two at a time, he took the stairs to the basement and walked to the garage. He put on the brakes when he saw Raylan's Town Car. His phone pinged.

_Courtroom B. What?_

So Tim turned around and took the steps two at a time back to the main floor, jogged to Courtroom B. Raylan was sitting in the back watching a hearing for a man he'd hunted down and brought in the week before. Tim slid onto the bench beside him, opened the file to the ballistics report and pointed at the paragraph that listed the ammunition.

"Shit," Raylan whispered, leaning over to read it. "You think the old lady shot him?"

Tim shrugged.

"Maybe," said Raylan, doubtful. "More likely Elvis has her gun."

"Elvis refuses to carry a gun."

"What? Why?"

"It's in his file. He's a pacifist – self-proclaimed."

"Huh, really. The things you don't know."

"You'd know if you read the file."

Raylan ignored the jab. "You interested in a drive?"

"That's why I'm here."

"Look at you all keen all the sudden."

"I just want another cookie."

"_Gentlemen!"_

Raylan and Tim looked up, school boys in the back of class. Judge Reardon had halted proceedings and was glaring at them from his seat. "I hope this is official Marshal business that's interrupting my court. Take it outside before I find you both in contempt!"

"Yessir," Tim mumbled, stood to leave.

"Sorry, your honor. Surprising bit of evidence just popped up, murder case. I got caught up in it." Raylan held up the file folder, wiggled it suggestively, put on a serious Deputy US Marshal face, pushed his jacket back to put a hand on his belt casually revealing his star and his sidearm. It was like a ritual mating dance to the judge. Tim thought he saw him salivate.

"Alright." Official business seemed enough reason to warrant a pardon and Reardon waved them out. "But take it into the hallway."

"Excuse us, your honor. We meant no disrespect."

Raylan smiled; Reardon nodded.

Tim kept his face a blank until the door closed behind them, then he rolled his eyes for Raylan's amusement and said, "What a douche."

* * *

Ms. Flynn was baking muffins this time. Munching his way through a second helping with tea, Tim didn't seem to care what was coming out of the oven, checking his phone every two minutes, content to listen while Raylan asked the questions.

"Ms. Flynn, has anyone been around asking for Elvis?"

"Just you two," she said, pouring more tea.

"So no one other than us?"

"Not looking for Elvis," she said coyly, "no."

Raylan smiled and remembered the Feds warning. He was onto something here – definitely warm. "Looking for something or someone else maybe?"

"There was a fellow a few days back. He wasn't very nice. I didn't offer him tea. He was after the money." The kettle was whistling on the stove and she added some boiling water to the pot and then sat again with the Marshals.

"He was after…the money?"

"That's right. But it wasn't his money, so I didn't give it to him." She nodded smartly.

"What money…exactly?"

"Not your money, Marshal. I know all about that. He wanted my _boys' _money."

Raylan frowned at the mention of the deceased Fred and Ed. "I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am. It'd be hard losing both your sons like that."

She poured more tea, steady hands and steady eyes holding Raylan's. "Thank you, Marshal, but they had it coming. God help them, they were involved in a nasty business. They did a lot worse than Teddy ever did. Those poor girls they kept in that cellar… I kept praying that the Sheriff would catch up with them but it was the fellows they were working with, as I understand it from what the Sheriff said, that finally put a stop to their sinful business. Marshal, I pray every Sunday at church that God might find it in himself to forgive them, but out here before bed I pray they go straight to hell. It's hard being a mother."

Tim gestured at Raylan. "He'd understand. He feels the same way about his father."

"And you don't feel the same way about yours?" Raylan turned the spotlight on Tim.

"Nope. I hope he's miserable in hell. No confusion for me."

"Must be nice."

"Simpler." Tim reached for another muffin. "And I hope it's dry there, the part of hell he's in – no booze, no women and no smoking." He grinned imagining.

"You sound a bit resentful."

"I'm comfortable with that."

The conversation was running fast on a tangent away from the point of the visit and Raylan decided to bring it back. He prompted Ms. Flynn to continue talking.

"So Fred and Ed kept their money on your property and this man knew about it and came looking for it?"

"That's right."

Raylan leaned forward a little. "And I'd guess that was him, the one they found dead in the outhouse?"

She smiled and poured more tea.

Tim had stopped eating and was staring at the woman's hands. "It was you that shot him."

"Like I said, he wasn't very nice."

Raylan wasn't convinced. "It wasn't Elvis?"

She shook her head, smiled smugly.

"You used a .50 caliber handgun and shot him?"

"I didn't think the shotgun would do the job through the wooden boards."

Tim's third muffin was left unfinished on his plate while the two men followed the elderly woman into the yard with her Smith and Wesson Model 500 and watched, mouths gaping, as she put three holes neatly into the trunk of a tree at thirty yards.

"Nice shooting," said Tim, eyes flicking from her to the tree and back. "Can I have a go?"

She eyed him, doubtful. "It kicks. And Edward burned himself not holding it properly even after I warned him. There's a lot of hot gas coming out of that barrel."

"Yes, ma'am, but I'm trained. Seriously, I know what I'm doing." Tim looked eager and she relented and handed it over with a few more cautions and Tim listened patiently and then he aimed and put the last two rounds next to hers. He turned the gun over in his hand, admiring. "That's something."

Raylan didn't look so happy, one hand on his hip, the other up pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight. He opened them and looked up at a hazy blue summer sky and swore, "Dammit."

Tim returned the revolver and walked over. "What?"

"Shit, Tim, I can't call this in. She's ninety-five or something. What's the point?"

"Well, how old was Arlo?"

"That's different."

"I guess."

Both Tim and Raylan turned to assess their criminal, the woman who gunned down an unsuspecting man sitting on a shitter taking a dump. He may have deserved it, but it would be hard to plead self-defense in this case. They watched as she wandered slowly away across the yard to look at the tree they were using as a target, stepping through the long grass carefully, her faded blue-flowered dress hanging loose on her. She stopped and pressed her hand against the tree trunk feeling where the bullets had gone in through the bark, the gun in her other hand lightly held. She was humming to herself. They could just make out a melody drifting faintly.

She turned from her scrutiny of the bullet grouping, smiled and returned Tim's earlier compliment to her, "Nice shooting. You put your two almost on top of each other," and Tim smiled back.

He wasn't smiling later when the revolver followed the path Elvis took, off the cliff into the Kentucky River. Tim watched it fall sadly, said a few words in memory, "Nice gun," and walked with Raylan back to the house. "A bit impractical though."

Raylan was too busy justifying in his head what they'd just done to comment.

There was a fresh pot of tea waiting for them, and a shotgun laid across the kitchen table next to a plate of muffins.

"I guess you'll be wanting that too?" Ms. Flynn said, pointing at her other firearm.

"No, ma'am." Raylan screwed up his mouth, waved at the weapon helplessly. "You can keep that."

Neither man was particularly fond of tea, but they drank more while Raylan laid out the deal – he threatened to find a doctor to declare her unfit and have her put in a nursing home if she said anything about the handgun or what had transpired that morning. She reassured them that living with Theodore Johnson as long as she had had taught her a thing or two about the law and breaking it and she understood that she was being offered a pass. Their secret would remain her secret too. They sealed the pact with some more tea and Ms. Flynn brought out a jar of moonshine that her neighbor made especially for her, on the sweet side with cherries soaking in it, and they had a taste and admired the craftsmanship. It went down well with the muffins.

"You ever kill anyone before?" Tim thought it a prudent question.

"Not often. I am a Christian woman and the bible says _Thou shalt not kill. _But sometimes…"

Raylan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, slid his eyes over to Tim who shrugged and wiped his muffin-greasy hands on his jeans. Ms. Flynn got up and got him a paper napkin and Tim grinned sheepishly and said thank you and she pressed a fourth muffin on him.

"Okay," Raylan said after a pause. "But now, I still need to find Elvis."

"Oh, he's long gone. I gave him the bad money to do some good with. He left the state, went back home. He was happy 'cause it's more than enough for him to buy his girl out."

"Buy his girl out?" Another look shared between the Marshals.

"He was heading back to get her. That's what he told me. He's in love, poor boy. But don't you worry, I made him promise that he'd return your $50,000 now that he has his own money. And he'll do it. Elvis is the son I should've had. He's got a good heart."

Raylan and Tim walked to the car, dazed. Raylan wondered if it was the moonshine; Tim wondered if Raylan was going soft in middle age, not having Ms. Flynn arrested for murder – not that he wasn't secretly in agreement, he just thought it odd. _Ride the rap_ – that was Raylan's catch phrase. But maybe it didn't apply to anyone over ninety, a rule adjustment. Tim left it at that, started thinking about Miljana and texted her again. Raylan thought about Mr. Johnson running moonshine down through Harlan, thought about Elvis buying a girl, thought about human trafficking, thought about Ms. Flynn's comment that Elvis was going home, thought about talking to Boyd Crowder.

"So, maybe the Reno mob guys aren't after Elvis. Maybe his being here was just a coincidence."

Tim hit send, said, "What?"

"We're going to Harlan. And before you start complaining, let me tell you, I'd rather go alone but it's too far to go to drop you back at the office."

Tim checked his watch – it was lunchtime. "We gotta stop somewhere for lunch then. I'm starving."

"You just had four muffins."

"That was breakfast."

Raylan huffed. "There's a drive-thru in Corbin."

"I guess that'll have to do."

"I guess it will."

Then Tim got thinking about the Marshals' money. "So Elvis stole the $50,000 to buy himself one of Fred and Ed's girls."

"Looks like."

"I can't decide if that's romantic. Hey, maybe you could buy a girl, too."

"Thank you, no. I'm still paying for my last two."

"I count three."

Raylan frowned. "Three?"

Tim was distracted by a text from Miljana, surfaced again after replying to her. "Reno or Vegas, do you think? It'll be tough finding him there. He'll blend right in. That's Elvis country – they roam wild."

"I think I may have to go to Nevada."

"You _could_ just pass the tip along to the Reno Bureau."

"I could."

"You'll piss off the Feds if you show up there."

"Do I look like I care?"

Tim actually glanced over to check. "You know, that was the same gun Kurt Cobain used to kill himself."

"Which?"

"The shotgun the old lady had on the table – Remington Model 11, twenty gauge."

"Why do you know that?"

"I remember thinking it'd be hard to do, shoot yourself with a gun that long."

"Tim, you worry me."

"That old lady worries me."

Tim reached for the radio, turned it on scanning for some music. It was difficult to get a good signal driving through the hills. He finally settled on a station in the middle of a retro hour, grinned over at Raylan when he recognized the next song and the artist – "Money Honey" by Elvis Presley.

"My buddy used to sing this one too."

"Don't," said Raylan, but Tim started singing along, a few modified lyrics to add some color to the black and white of the 1950s.

* * *

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	13. Chapter 13

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Raylan Givens. Why, I'd love to say I'm surprised to see you but…" Boyd threw his arms out to the side, grinned.

"Boyd."

The bar was empty except for Boyd and one of his crew, his latest right-hand man. Tim couldn't remember his name. He never bothered with the Harlan bunch, not much need when he had Raylan, the Kentucky criminal version of Google, with him anytime he came down this way.

"And Deputy Gutterson – I see you've got your holster back with your full-sized Glock bundled in there all snug and you do look happy about it and, if you don't mind me saying, more complete. Up at old Ms. Flynn's I was concerned you might tip over without it, your balance off."

Tim patted his sidearm, smiled, no teeth.

Boyd reached into the side of his jacket and brandished a shiny revolver. Raylan and Tim both pulled, Boyd's man too, a shotgun from under the counter. Boyd ignored them all, all the weapons out and up, slipped off the stool he was perched on at the bar, and strolled across to the Marshals.

"Jimmy, put that away," he said, turning his revolver so that he had it by the barrel and holding it out for Tim. "This is the M1911 I was telling you about, Deputy. If you would just holster your utilitarian, flat black, law-enforcement-announcing Glock then you can see why I like the weight and feel and class of this beautiful lady."

Tim looked sideways at Raylan for permission, tucked his Glock away and accepted the handle of Boyd's revolver. He ran a hand along the metal and smiled, with teeth this time. "She's a beauty, all right. Nice weight." He passed it back. "I can't shake the attachment to this gun though." He reached behind and pulled out his Beretta. "It just feels like you're carrying a tank in your pocket and to an infantry guy like me, that means something."

Boyd nodded. "I was in demolition."

"I heard."

"You read."

Tim's grin widened, acknowledging the truth. Raylan huffed.

"Sorry, Raylan, but we don't have a Starbucks in Harlan." Boyd smiled again for Tim, then turned and headed back to his bar stool. "It is a little early in the day, but would you boys care for a drink?"

"We've already indulged ourselves this morning, thank you. Ms. Flynn has some tasty cherry moonshine in her cupboard along with a bigger revolver than yours." Raylan sauntered after Boyd; Tim stayed at the door and watched Jimmy. "I think Tim's manhood was threatened by how well she handles it."

Boyd narrowed his eyes. "It does seem incongruous, Grandma Flynn and that particular caliber weapon. I cannot imagine she has much need of it."

"A surprising amount, so it would seem."

"Tell me you have not been arresting little old ladies today, Raylan. Have you sunk so low?"

"No, the implicating murder weapon slipped out my hand off the cliff into the Kentucky river. It'll be hard to make a case without it. I did take a moment to feel bad for the Reno hitman though, a split second of mourning. We toasted him, Tim, didn't we?"

"Maybe you did. I was still crying over the loss of that revolver."

Boyd seemed to relax, slid his hand along the bar and leaned back.

Raylan got to the point. "Why did you set me onto Elvis, Boyd? There's gotta be something in for you."

"Peace of mind. I knew you would follow the trail to her and I trusted you to do the right thing. The Crowders made a promise some time back to Teddy Johnson that they would look after his family since they were supposedly going legitimate. We have held to our word for the old lady's sake. But the boys, well, let's just say they were always _on their own."_

"This is your way of looking after her? Hoping I'd get there in time?"

"I could not involve myself too deeply, Raylan. The Flynn brothers were up to no good with some dangerous folk – Russian mob, crooked cops, Reno mob. The Nevada gang might think twice about gunning down a Deputy US Marshal, but a two-bit hillbilly gangster like me… Why I doubt they would trouble themselves even to hide my body."

"How did you find out about it?"

"Frederick and Edward came around a few months back hoping I would offer them some protection and a safe place for their money."

"Trust in the Bank of Boyd. And you didn't take it?" Raylan drew back, surprised.

"As I just finished saying, I do not care to get entangled with the Nevada mob, or any mob for that matter."

"You knew they were coming after them."

"They came into southern Kentucky like a plague of locusts looking for the brothers. I am surprised you didn't hear about it."

"Still, seems like an easy way to make a fortune – sit back, watch the owners' get gunned down then keep their money."

Boyd dropped the good-natured act, cocked his head. "It would never be that easy. They are still looking for that money."

"It's not in Kentucky anymore."

"And I repeat – they are still looking for that money."

"How much are we talking?"

"I have it straight from the horse's mouth – three million. Though, who knows, the Flynn brothers were not exactly your upright citizens. They might possibly have been down-playing their business profits."

"Is there a reward out on Elvis?" Raylan quickly amended his question. "Other than the measly two grand the Marshals Service is offering for information leading to his capture?"

"I have told everyone who has come asking – Elvis and the money are in Las Vegas."

"And how much do you stand to make if the mob gets to him first?"

Boyd smiled but didn't answer. Raylan turned and walked out.

"_Viva Las Vegas,"_ said Tim. "I told you we should look there first."

"Tim, if you start singing, I'll shoot you. I mean it."

* * *

"Art, by the time the Bureau in Las Vegas responds to our tips, Elvis will be a corpse and the $50,000 will never be recovered."

Art was wavering, clearly wanting to say yes, the possibility of a feather in the Lexington Office's cap swaying the decision, but caution had a strong argument too and Art allowed it its say as he looked at Raylan, shifting eagerly from foot to foot, too eagerly. Tim poked his head in the office, curious to see how the discussion was going, and that put Art's regret probabilities up into the high nineties. But he was surprised to discover he still wanted to say yes. He wondered when he'd become a gambling man.

"Fine, go, but take Tim with you. I don't like the file on the Reno mob guy."

"He's dead."

"I doubt he works alone," Art snapped, "that's why they call it a 'mob.'" He jabbed a finger in Tim's direction. "And you, stay out of the casinos and away from the tables."

Tim opened and shut his mouth once, then said, "Why would you say that? You think I have a gambling problem?"

"Who's always running the office pools?"

"I'm the only one who can do the math."

"You initiate all the gambling here."

"Hey, it's not like I'm begging to go to Vegas. Send…" Tim turned and surveyed the office. "…send Nelson."

"I'll take Tim," said Raylan. "And I'll keep him away from the tables."

Tim threw his hands out, giving up the argument, turned to leave.

Art started thinking about his budget. "When are you planning on going?"

"Now."

Tim's reaction carried back through the door. "Shit, I promised Miljana I'd pick her up."

"Tim, language."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he yelled from the bullpen, "I need all the language I can get this week," and stomped back to his desk cursing liberally.

"Is he off his meds?" Art asked. "His attitude has sunk to intolerable these past few weeks. It's not like him. Usually you can count on him to handle all the shit in this office with just a little sarcasm and a stupid fake grin. "

Raylan shrugged. "I think it's wedding anxiety."

"He's getting married? Since when?"

* * *

Miljana was surprised to find Tim waiting for her inside the Veterans Center. He was leaning on a wall as close to the exit as he could get and not be in the way of the pedestrian traffic in and out of the lobby, arms jammed into his pant pockets, lips tight, foot tapping impatiently. She stopped in front of him and he still didn't smile so she dropped her bag and leaned up against him. Sliding her arms around his waist she kissed him more thoroughly than she would normally do in public then she tilted her head back and watched the warring emotions and grinned.

"That wasn't fair." He still wouldn't smile.

She whispered, "Do you think I could cure you of your bad feelings for this building if I slipped my hand into your jeans right now?"

"Is this your idea of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy? Do you really want me mixing my hate-on for this place with thoughts of you naked? It might backfire on you."

Her grin faltered. "You have a point." She picked up her bag then grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him off the wall, slipped under his arm and steered him out the door and to his truck. "You okay?"

"It was hard to concentrate today."

"Better than yesterday?"

"Yeah, some."

"Good."

"Now how about you? You okay?"

"You know, there's some good in all this – every cloud has a silver lining if you care to discover it. I've been using what happened to get a couple of the guys in here to talk finally, on the pretense that they're helping me deal with the violence. And it lets me retell it with a purpose, therapy for me."

"You are shifty and conniving."

"It's part of my job description – yours too, I imagine."

Tim had often thought about that, the irony of it. "Yeah, when in Rome… Uh, I have to go Las Vegas."

"When?"

"Now."

She looked disappointed but quickly put on an impish grin. "Still looking for Elvis?"

"Yep."

She stopped, frowned. "I was kidding."

"I asked Steve to stay with you while I'm gone."

"Tim…"

"Please, sweetheart. It's more for me than you."

"Okay."

There was just enough time to pick up her car at the garage and throw together an overnight bag and then Raylan pulled up at the house, tapped the horn twice and Tim was gone. He turned to look at the porch as the car moved down the street and watched her walk back into the house, the screen door closed.

"She okay?" said Raylan.

"Yeah."

But she wasn't, not yet.

She got upset when he explained why they were heading to Las Vegas. _Human trafficking,_ she repeated, then drew the ugliness in the air between them with two words, _sex trade. _He nodded and she asked where the girls were from and he told her, Eastern Europe. _Eastern Europe, where? _Baltics, and you know, farther south – he'd hedged but she caught it._ Sranje! _And that's when she really got upset. She imagined that maybe she might know one of them, might have played with an older sister, might be related. There were plenty of vulnerable elements in the population in that area to exploit since the Soviet collapse and the subsequent spattering of civil wars around the fringes. He recognized that she was probably more upset about it than she might've been if a man hadn't been shot dead in front of her just a few days earlier but he didn't dare point that out. He let her have her anger and he tried not to think too hard about it all, the shooting or the girls. Some things with this job were plain ugly and you didn't dwell there or you got ugly too. It rubbed off like soot, greasy and black.

He was missing her before they even arrived at the airport. It felt like there was something he'd forgotten to do. He went through a mental checklist, satisfied himself that he hadn't overlooked anything and relaxed a little. She walked back into his head and he listened to her ranting again.

_And he's buying her? For what?_ _Marriage?_ Tim repeated the old lady's words to her, 'Elvis is in love.' _So marriage then because she can't stay here legally otherwise. And does she want that? Is that her idea of freedom or his?_ These were questions that Tim felt incredibly unequipped to tackle. He packed. She stormed. She hugged him ferociously and then he left.

Marriage, it was dogging him this month.

"Milja figures he's going to marry her. It makes sense if he wants her to stay."

Raylan waited while Tim went through the process of showing his Marshal's identification and clearing his weapons through security at the airport then he took his turn.

"It does make sense," he said when they presented themselves at the boarding gate. "You know, I think she just might've narrowed down our search." He smiled over at Tim. "We'll start with the chapels."

They settled into their seats.

The jet was just lifting from the tarmac and Tim was already dozing off.

Raylan nudged him with an elbow and his eyes popped open. "A Las Vegas wedding, Tim. Hey, that's two weddings for you this week."

Tim grunted.

Raylan thought out loud. "It's convenient and easy and it solves all his problems, and hers."

"Not according to Milja. Do you think they'll go to an Elvis impersonator, tunnel of love?"

"Now, that'd be funny."

"Can I write up the report?"

* * *

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	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note: **Hey lurker, welcome to the club. We're all lurkers, or were at some point. Lurkers make the fanfiction world go 'round. :D I'm embarrassed to confess that I write these stories (mostly) as I go, so I couldn't post it any faster but thank you for the nudge. More magical, mythical airlines in this story, running a direct flight from Lexington to Las Vegas daily.

* * *

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Okay, where next?" Raylan stepped out onto the sidewalk leaving behind the tacky interior of another quick and cheap wedding chapel, the sound of a surprisingly good Elvis impersonator reverberating in his ear, and let his gaze wander in and around the flashing neon and the flashy characters on the seedier end of the Las Vegas strip, less money down on this end, more hope.

Tim scrolled through his Google results for 'wedding' 'fast' 'Las Vegas', locations mapped out on his phone, and found the next closest one and pointed along the street. "This way for 'A Story Book Chapel.'"

"Not exactly your story book wedding," said Raylan and started walking.

"I dunno – might be. I haven't met the happy couple yet." Tim took in two deep breaths, wet his lips, his eyes scanning nervously. There was a lot of movement on this block, a lot to keep an eye on even at two in the morning, and he couldn't settle his mind – there was just too much coming at him, too many noises and distracting lights, too many cars drifting past too slowly, too many faces to scan, too many rooftops, too many shadowy corners and doorways and dark windows. "Shouldn't we call the Vegas Bureau, let them know we're here?"

"We will if we need to. How's that?"

"And when'll that be?"

"When we find Elvis and have to take him somewhere with a lock on the door."

Tim was keeping pace with Raylan, turned while still moving to check behind him, dance step of the hunters and hunted.

"Tim, what're you doing?"

"Just checking."

"For what?"

"I dunno. I'll let you know when I see it. How's that?"

"Never been to Las Vegas?"

"Once…a while ago." He waved a hand vaguely. "Before."

They arrived at the next chapel before Raylan could ask about Tim's hazy time reference. Tim held the door open and walked in last then stepped quickly back out again and looked up and down the street. Raylan gave him a funny look and Tim shrugged it off.

They stepped up to a reception area, heard voices in a back room and Raylan pushed through the next set of doors and was greeted by Elvis.

"Wrong Elvis," he said over his shoulder to Tim.

"How many's that now?"

Raylan held up a picture of Elvis Johnson when the Elvis impersonator, complete with gold lamé jacket and rhinestone sunglasses, gave them a deep and sultry, "Hello."

"Seen this guy?"

Elvis shook his head.

"Next," said Raylan and led the way back to the street.

Tim called out the next address and they crossed over to the other side of the road another block down. "This one's called 'Graceland,'" he said, walking backward again, surveying the street behind them.

"Tim…"

"I got a feeling, alright?"

"Who would be following us?"

"Gosh, let me think… Vegas mob, Feds, Russian mob, crooked cops, maybe a pack of hungry Elvis impersonators. You were there. You heard Boyd."

"No one knows we're here."

"Boyd knows."

Raylan stopped and checked the addresses on the store fronts, moved a couple of doors down and walked into 'Graceland' and straight into Elvis.

"Right Elvis," he said back to Tim.

"Aw, shit." The right Elvis dropped his head onto his chest, hang-dog. "How'd you find me?"

The woman on his arm was young, looked enough like Miljana, dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes, though taller and thinner, that it stopped Tim cold, kept him from checking back out the door like he'd done at every other chapel. His lips pressed together tightly into a frown and he cleared his throat.

"It wasn't hard," he managed to say through the rush of emotions jamming his voice, his blood roaring loudly in his ears. "Raylan, cuff him and let's get outta here…_now."_

"But…" Elvis looked ready to cry, a flower child born into the wrong decade. "But we haven't got married yet."

"Well, what've you been doing then? We gave you a head start. You been taking in the sights? Seen a couple shows, maybe?" Raylan pulled out his handcuffs and motioned Elvis over.

"It's the earliest I could get in. It's not like it was before when people would just get married, spur of the moment, without thinking about it too much. You gotta plan this stuff out now. Every place is booked months ahead. This is all I could get."

Raylan looked at Tim; Tim shook his head, looked at the girl. "What's your name?"

Elvis answered for her. "Her English isn't so good. Her name's Darja."

Tim sucked in some air. "That's pronounced 'Daria'. Where's she from?"

"Belarus, but I don't know where that is." Elvis flicked his eyes from Tim to Raylan, looking for a drop of sympathy in either. "If I marry her, she doesn't have to go back, see?"

"You have to be married for three years, Elvis – three years before she can apply for citizenship. You really think that's gonna work out for you now?"

"Three years? Tim, are you sure?" Raylan was softening.

"I got a lecture on it before the flight. Miljana laid it all out."

Raylan nodded. "I guess she'd know."

"Raylan, we gotta go."

"Please, let me marry her. It'll only take five minutes. You could be our witnesses," said Elvis, his knees bending, begging. "It'd be more official with Marshals signing."

Raylan held up a hand, spread his fingers. "Can we spare five minutes, Tim?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Tim ran his hand nervously over his holster and looked back at the door.

* * *

The cab let them out at a motel after the ceremony, a place well off the strip, an even rougher part of town. Elvis led them to a door on street level in the middle of the two-story, u-shaped building wrapped around a parking lot. It was utilitarian and cheap.

"So, this is the honeymoon suite," said Raylan following Elvis and his bride to the door.

"I've got your money here." Elvis managed to look happy and dejected, a married man. "I was going to send it by courier tomorrow. Honest, I was. I don't need it anymore. I got some from my cousins."

"Yeah, we know," said Raylan. "That money though, might get you into some trouble, Elvis. We need to talk about that."

"The mob here's after it. That's what Aunt Flynn said. Fred and Ed were paying the people bringing the girls in less than they said they were. They were going to give me a deal on Darja because of it, but they got themselves dead and then I thought it was too late but I found out where she was and I…well, I stole her instead."

"Shit. Tell me you didn't do that."

"Uh, yeah, I did. Do you think they'll come after us?"

"If you stole something from me, Elvis, I'd come after you."

Tim hesitated outside the doorway, the room smack in the middle of the 'u' at the foot of the parking lot, everything sloping down toward it. He turned and looked up to the left, a row of doors and windows, then up to the right, the same, then straight out at the parking lot, the street, the buildings across the street.

"Inside, Tim," said Raylan from the room.

"I don't like this. I'm going to take a look around."

"Tim, I'm calling the Vegas Bureau right now."

"We're in a kill zone, Raylan, a perfect kill zone. I don't like it. I'm gonna go talk to the owner, see if anyone's been around." And he jogged off to the office.

Raylan shut the door and locked it.

Two vans pulled up five minutes later; two men got out of the first, approached the door to the room, two more got out of the second, followed Tim's path to reception. Tim watched them from the window of the motel office, unclipped his sidearm, considered his narrowing options. He stepped out of view when the automatic rifles came out, waved the owner down to the floor with his badge.

He swore under his breath and looked around him. "What's in the back room?" he asked, gesturing past the counter.

"Stairs to my apartment," the man said. "What's going on?"

"Balcony?"

A quick nod.

"You got a rifle?" Tim asked him. "Do any hunting?"

The man nodded again, eyes round. "I got a Remington and a…and a…Ruger…and a…"

"Which Remington?"

"Uh…uh…700."

"That'll do. Get it fast, and any ammo you got."

Tim sent a quick text to Raylan – _mob 4 – _then drew his gun and pressed himself against the wall by the door. He shot the first man through it, didn't bother with any foreplay; the second scrambled leaving a volley of bullets; the two in the parking lot opened fire on Elvis's room. When the owner reappeared behind the counter with the rifle, Tim grabbed it and sprinted up the stairs and slid carefully out onto the balcony on his stomach. He did a short Ranger prayer to the battle gods while he loaded a round, aimed and fired at one of the men trying to shoot his way past the door to Elvis's room and the money. He missed, hit the guy next to him.

"Fuck!" Tim slid in another round, slid the bolt back and thought carefully about where the last bullet went, compensated in his head for the next shot then started looking for targets. His phone rang. He set it on the balcony floor beside him, put it on speaker. "That'd better be you, Raylan."

"What do you see, Tim?"

"I count two down – one dead, the other…crawling. There are two more that I got a visual on, probably more in the two vans parked outside your door. I'm on the second floor balcony out at your two."

"Alright. I've called for back-up."

"Right. I'm gonna start tire hunting."

"You got a rifle?"

"Owner's got an arsenal."

"Okay, good."

There was a pause and Tim lined up the front tire of the first van, this time off-scope, and shot it out, lined up another tire on the second vehicle.

"Uh, Tim?"

"Yeah."

"Elvis took a bullet. The idiot decided he wanted to let them in and talk to them. There wasn't enough left of the door to slow down the round."

Tim swallowed. "How's the girl?"

"She's in the tub."

Tim stilled, eyes still on his target, pulled the trigger and the second van jerked low on the close side then he put one through the side window for fun. A muzzle poked out through the hole in the glass and bullets sprayed the balcony around him. He put his head down, made himself as flat as possible.

"Tim?"

"I'm good. They've got a shitty angle on me."

"No need to piss them off now. I thought you were aiming at tires."

"Gee, I missed."

"Tim, stay frosty."

Tim loaded another round. "I should've checked at that last chapel, Raylan. I didn't check."

"I didn't check either." Another pause. "Who's watching your back, buddy?"

"I got a full view. Maybe they'll try it, huh, sneaking up on me? That'd be fun."

"I hear the cavalry. Hang up – they might be trying to call."

Tim pressed 'end' and watched the man he wounded with the first rifle shot dragging his way to cover. One of the vans started moving, limping its way out of the parking lot, cut off before it could make it to the street by sirens and flashing lights. There were four men left standing and they surrendered quietly, expecting a short stay in jail and a good lawyer and some long-arm payout to get them free again. Tim kept the crosshairs on the one he missed, followed his movements as the Las Vegas police searched him and cuffed him. He finally took his finger off the trigger when his phone rang again.

"Elvis is dead." Raylan's voice was too.

"Fuck."

* * *

"I told Art I'd keep you away from the tables."

Tim signaled for another card. He'd left Raylan at the precinct after giving his statement and handing over his sidearm, found a Blackjack game at the MGM Grand that was in a quieter corner. The dealer had the only spot against the wall but Tim had managed to find a seat that gave him a good view of the casino. He saw Raylan coming.

"Do you mind? I ain't playing though," said Raylan, nodding at the dealer and pointing at the seat beside Tim, the only player.

The dealer waved away his concerns, motioned to the chair while he dealt Tim another card.

"They let you in here with a gun?" said Tim, eyebrow up.

"I'm more amazed that you'd come in here without one."

"Who says I'm without one?"

Raylan snorted. "You disappeared, Tim."

"I left you a message."

"So thanks for the message."

"I needed a distraction."

"How much you down?"

"I'm up. Blackjack's got the best odds of the casino games."

There was a glass of something on the table and Raylan picked it up and sniffed it then took a sip, grimaced. "That's not your usual."

Tim shrugged. "It was free."

"Free?"

"I bought in at five thousand, that gets me a free drink or two."

"How many have you had…for free?"

"I've been nursing that one since I got here," said Tim, reaching over and taking it back. "Why don't you order your own?"

Raylan pointed at the glass when the waitress came by. She smiled for him and he admired her walk when she turned away. "What time is it?"

Tim checked his watch. "Six."

"In the morning? Shit."

"I got us a flight at nine."

"And you're gonna play till then?"

Tim won the round and pulled in his chips. "Nope. I'm gonna play till I'm up twenty percent then I'm gonna cash in and buy us some drinks at the airport before the flight. I have to go to a bachelor party tonight and I don't want to go sober."

"Tim, about Darja…"

"I don't want to know." Tim interrupted sharply, bet the next round.

"They got a translator and the Feds got involved – they were a little pissy with me until they heard what she knew then they got a little friendlier. They're talking to the state department, immigration. We're gonna set her up in WITSEC if she agrees to spill what she knows about the sex-trafficking ring and that means fast-track citizenship."

"Lucky for her – life in WITSEC." He lost that round, lost track of the cards. "Fuck, Raylan, I told you I didn't want to know." Tim downed the last of his drink. The waitress had anticipated and brought two, one for each of them. Tim eyed the second one like it might jump up and bite him.

He won the next round, bet heavily on it. Raylan sat sipping his drink and watching and an hour passed. Tim lost a few, won more. Eventually, he sifted through his chips, waved away the next hand, gave a tip to the dealer and walked to the cashier to trade out.

"You okay?" Raylan asked watching while Tim stuffed his five thousand in one pocket and split off his winnings, a thousand, and stuffed it in the other. "You going soft on me? Or I dunno, maybe you always were and you just hide it well."

"Who's the one who agreed to let them get married?"

"I thought I saw you tearing up during the ceremony." Raylan kept teasing, cajoling while they flagged a cab for the airport.

"I was crying at the abuse of Elvis tunes, appropriate pick though."

"What was it? I don't recall."

"_It's Now or Never."_

Raylan huffed.

"Yeah."

* * *

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	15. Chapter 15

**Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Art stood up to meet them when they straggled in the door in the afternoon, not much bounce in their steps. He waved them through to this office like a traffic cop.

"Gentlemen. How was Vegas?"

"A blur," said Raylan. "I'm still trying to focus my eyes."

"I guess Tim was sleeping on the plane?"

"As always."

"I don't think he's awake yet." Art clapped his hands loudly. "Wake up, Tim! It's back to reality."

Tim didn't even twitch, shifted his eyes sideways and glared.

Art sat down, pleased with his joke, and swiveled happily in his chair. "So you recovered the Marshals Service's money. I'm sure they are eternally grateful."

"Yep."

"I figured you'd be more excited about it, Raylan, finding the money and finding Elvis."

"And then losing Elvis," said Tim, finally joining in.

"Losing him?"

"Mob got him," Raylan explained. "Elvis is dead. I was there. I can confirm it."

Art looked from one Deputy to the other. "He got to you."

"The guy was an innocent."

"And an idiot," added Tim.

"And we stood up for him at his wedding. You feel a kinship after something like that."

Tim raised a hand. "For the record, I wanted nothing to do with it."

"Oh, come on now, Tim. It was the highlight of the trip."

"Raylan, the only good part of the trip was…" Tim was about to say 'taking a casino for a grand' but he swallowed it, fidgeted, fumbled for a way to cover up, gave up finally, grumbled, "The trip sucked. Can I go? I'm starving – I wanna get some lunch and then I gotta get the paperwork done early 'cause I have a thing tonight."

"A thing?" Art didn't look impressed by the urgency of attending 'a thing.'

"Bachelor party."

"You know, Tim – the way you say that – if I just listen to the tone and not the words, I'd think you were going for a root canal."

"You got one scheduled? I'll trade you."

"Weddings aren't so bad. Maybe I'll be attending yours sometime in the future."

"That's not happening." Tim said the words slowly, carefully, hammering each one out to strengthen it so it would last for eternity.

"Never say never."

"_Never."_

* * *

Tim tripped on the top step of the porch, tired, caught himself before taking a tumble. Miljana had just arrived home and was standing in the hallway, she turned quickly at the noise and her face fell. He couldn't miss the message in her expression – she wasn't happy to see him.

"Shit, you're back," she blurted out.

The words were so out of character that they froze his feet to the porch floor and he stood there lost in a frosty haze of insecurities. She reacted instantly, covered the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his neck and messed his hair and laughed. The laugh was warm and reassuring.

She kissed him and patted his cheek, said, "Oh, God, the look on your face. I didn't mean it that way," took one of his bags from him and pulled him into the house. "How was Las Vegas?"

"Shitty." He lifted her off her feet and squeezed some comfort from her. "How _did_ you mean it?"

"I was hoping work really would keep you from the party tonight." Tracing the circles under his eyes and the sadness, she added, "You don't have to go."

"You're going with the girls?"

She nodded.

"I could use a good drunk and this is a good excuse…" He rubbed wearily at his eyes.

"Stay home."

"I don't mind."

"Tim, it's no big deal, it's just…"

"What?"

She dropped eye contact. "What, what?"

"Two days ago it was 'you're not missing this' and today it's 'sweetie, you can stay home'. So, what?"

Miljana dropped her forehead onto Tim's chest, huffed. "Marissa's still pissed with you for what you said about her at the dress shop so she let slip to me that the only reason they want you along is because they think you can take them to some 'choice bars' tonight – bars they wouldn't normally go to. She was being spiteful."

"And truthful, and well, it's true."

"Tim, just stay…"

"Oh, I'm going now. I'm gonna take them to some _really _choice bars."

She straightened up, looked worried. "Tim…"

"Marissa is a bitch. I don't know why that guy sticks with her. I should've just walked out of that shop and let poor Reggie do the job. No loss to the rest of us. And if goat-face, the groom, shows up at the wedding with a black eye and packed nose... That'd be fun. It'd make for some memorable wedding photos."

"What happened?"

"What?"

"In Vegas. What happened?"

"We're talking about Lexington right now."

"Maybe. But it's coated in Vegas."

Tim wet his lips, turned away, carelessly kicked his bag down the hall to the stairs and unhooked his holster and walked to the kitchen. Miljana followed him and opened a couple of cold beers and they sat at the table. Dropping his head down onto it, onto his arms, he stretched a hand out across to her and set it on one of hers, keeping her close, and told her about Elvis and Darja and the mob.

"That's tragic," she said when he'd finished and dumped all the money on the table.

"She looked a bit like you," he said. "You know, I had no idea how to spell your name until I saw it on your business card. Did I fall for you or an idea? I've been thinking about it. Elvis, he fell for an idea. He didn't know her at all. I'm thinking maybe it's not so tragic. The guy was fucking deluded. You were right – it was just his idea of freedom for her and she was just grasping for the nearest escape."

"Nobody here knows how to spell my name."

The beer was cold and her hand was warm and the kitchen was quiet and he dozed off.

She sat a bit, looked from the pile of cash to the gun in the holster – it looked new – to the arm stretched out toward her to the empty beer bottle and she marveled how he could drink with his head down on the table. Freeing her hand from his, she ran it lightly up his outstretched arm, across his shoulder to his neck then back through his hair. She bent her head down toward his and whispered, "The couch is more comfortable."

"Hmph."

She took a fistful of his hair and tugged gently. "Come on."

* * *

Tim dressed with a purpose, his weekend jeans for chores, the ones with a hole in the knee, a t-shirt with a bourbon brand logo, faded from too many washes and the neck frayed from too many late nights with a day's worth of stubble on his face, an old wrinkled plaid shirt, loose and long enough to hide a small handgun slipped into the back of his pants, his older black boots, well-worn and scuffed and comfortable. He didn't bother showering, left Vegas on him and wet his hair back and took a cab to meet the groom and his friends and give them a tour of the bars they would never know the inside of otherwise.

He left a list of his choices with Miljana, just in case, kissed her goodbye when the cab stopped to let her off at Arlene's house and she turned once at the door and looked back at him nervously. He smiled for her and leaned back, comfortable in his world, while the groom and his gang piled into the empty seats.

Tim surveyed the room when he led the group into the first bar, a quick once over for exits, possible threats, familiar faces. He was expecting to find an off-duty LPD officer or a character from the other side of his work world in the crowd, not his friend, the university professor. Steve was perched on a stool, sipping a beer and looking around curiously. Tim walked straight over to him.

"Miljana sent you."

"Oh, you're clever," said Steve.

"You're supposed to protect me, are you?"

"No, you're going to protect me. I've already been approached by three very aggressive women. I'm frightened, Tim. Hold me."

Tim was chuckling before Steve even finished. "Alright, I got your six, buddy. Not your usual hangout, huh?"

"No."

They shared a laugh and Tim ordered and started the evening – three pitchers of beer and enough glasses for the group. Steve joined them.

By the fourth bar the group was getting rowdy, all but Steve who nursed a single glass of beer at each stop and Tim who kept pace with the rest of them but didn't seem any the worse for it – he just got quieter. Tim decided as he directed his drunken entourage into seedy establishment number five that it might be better if he left number six and seven out of the tour – six being a known hangout for one of the more violent drug gangs in the city and seven, a regular truckers' haunt off the interstate with a call out to LPD most Friday nights to break up a brawl. The others weren't handling their liquor very well, getting louder and more belligerent by the minute, and Tim didn't relish the idea of stop eight being Lexington General. They didn't serve alcohol at the hospital and he was in a drinking mood tonight.

Bar number five was rough enough and risky enough and far enough out of the rest of the group's comfort zone to fulfill the bachelor party fantasy. Tim was content to drink out the evening there in his favorite corner, except that his corner was already occupied by a man in a cowboy hat. Tim eyed him suspiciously then did his usual survey of the room. Satisfied that he wasn't walking into any trouble he couldn't crawl out of, he walked over to greet Raylan.

"What're you doing here?"

Raylan was leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out, smirk stretched out, arm stretched out around a glass of bourbon. "Tim," he said, stretching his words out too, "what a surprise seeing you here."

"You sound like Boyd."

"No, I don't." The look was menacing.

"Okay, no, you don't."

"Why don't you and your friends join me?"

"Sure, but you're in my seat."

"Your seat?"

"Uh-huh."

Raylan kicked out the chair beside him, inclined his head at it. The positioning of the seat though would leave Tim's back to the room, so Tim waved Steve into it and pulled another chair over, squeezing it between them and angling it so his back was to the wall. Raylan snorted, anticipating the reaction, happy to see the world still the same.

The rest of the group stood like a herd of steer lowing, uncertain about the bar, uncertain about the extra company until Tim sighed and stood and introduced his coworker.

"Guys, this is Deputy Raylan Givens – he works with me, or beside me anyway. Raylan…" and he rattled off the names of each man in the party and Raylan, being polite, stood and shook hands and looked each one in the eye.

He stalled when the groom went to take his turn. "Do I know you?" asked Raylan, hand left just out of reach, finger pointed, casual, undertones of something serious.

"I don't think so," said the groom.

A quick nod and he completed the handshake and then Raylan turned to Steve. "Good to see you again, Steve. Looking after Tim, are you?"

"I got orders."

"She's not one you cross."

"Nope. You?"

"Well, I needed a drink after what happened in Las Vegas and I had a feeling Tim would find this bar sometime tonight. It's a favorite. He usually doesn't come with a crowd though."

Tim ordered bourbon this time now that he had company to drink it with. Someone across the table asked what happened in Vegas and Raylan started with, "A wedding and a funeral…"

And Tim interrupted, nudging Raylan's foot at the same time, hoping he'd get the hint and shut up. "What happens in Vegas…" Tim rolled his hand and the drunk gang finished in chorus, "Stays in Vegas!" and everyone laughed though it wasn't really very funny.

"Let's hear it anyway," said the groom. "Bachelor parties are free zones. You can say or do anything."

"Been to a few, have you?" said Raylan, eyes narrowed.

And the chant began, "Ve-gas, Ve-gas, Ve-gas…" Ten inebriated men banged their beer glasses on the table.

"Fine, fine. I'll tell you." Raylan slapped a hand on Tim's shoulder, gave it a little shake. "But you have to keep Tim from interrupting."

"And how do we do that?" someone yelled.

"Buy him another round," said Raylan.

So they did, and Raylan proceeded to describe the hunting of Elvis, the wedding and the shoot-out, and he finished with a funny rendition of Tim's success at the Blackjack table and a description of an early morning stop at an airport bar.

The interruptions and questions and jokes got louder and more exuberant as the tale unwound until finally another group yelled over, "Shut the fuck up. We can't hear the fucking music."

And one of the groom's friends rashly yelled back. "You shut the fuck up. We're doing story time."

"Take your fucking warm milk and go home."

"Take your fucking attitude and shove it up your…"

A beer glass sailed over the table from across the room, a nice arc finishing at Tim's head and he ducked and it hit the wall behind him and shattered. Then the fists joined in with the yelling, adding injury to insult. Raylan and Tim waded into the scrum, trying to stop the flailing arms and bloody noses before anything or anyone was damaged too badly and the bartender called the police. Steve slid calmly over into Raylan's chair, sipped his beer and watched.

* * *

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End file.
